


Gods of the Dark Half

by alexxphoenix42



Series: Children of the Small Gods [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All Souls' Day, Alternate Universe - Magic, BDSM, Becoming Parents, Bisexuality, But Sherlock often is too, Case Fic, Drug Use, Espionage, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Gay Sex, Ghost Stories, Halloween, Historical Fantasy, Homophobia, Humor, Infidelity, Intoxication, Jealousy, John is a Bit Not Good, Long-term marriage woes, M/M, Mystery, Paganism, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Regency Johnlock, Role Playing, Romance, Rope Bondage, Samhain, Semi-Public Sex, Suspension, Underage Prostitution, Voyeurism, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 110,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When busy schedules have them passing like ships in the night, Sherlock is determined to carve out time to give John an Autumn holiday. A house party in an old mansion rumored to be haunted, the appearance of an ex-boyfriend, and all manner of curious characters and events lead to an exciting though perhaps less than relaxing time away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up five years after "Children of the Small Gods" ends. It may help to have read the first story to understand this one. This series exists in an alternate universe that roughly parallels with ours in the late 1700's/early 1800's - but with magic, and very "modern" ideas. Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock takes on new cases, and John works on his career as a healer, it's hard for them to find time for each other. Sherlock aims to change this.

~ o ~

 

A fog crept in after dark, covering the low-lying areas, and swathing the city streets in a muffling layer. The disjointed sounds of horse hooves on the cobblestones, and some drunkard calling after his fellows came from close up or far away. It was difficult to tell in the muting cloud. Only a few lone street lamps pierced the gloom like will o' the whisps until a flicker of blue-tinged mage flame jumped suddenly to life to join them. It danced on tip of a man's finger, illuminating the oddly elegant planes of his face as he lit the cigarette caught at his lips. He inhaled greedily with a sigh, and let the magic fire die out. 

Being a chameleon mage had its uses Sherlock thought as the first satisfying crackle of smoke filled his lungs. He had just brushed against a fire mage not minutes before in the tavern behind him, borrowing his talent for just this purpose. Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt sweeping in with the delicious burst of nicotine. John hated smoking in general, and definitely didn’t approve of him doing it in particular. Sherlock rationalized that this was his first fag in at least a week, and a perfect reason for lingering on a lonely street corner on such a chilly night.

As if on cue, a shape appeared out of the fog to join him. The blurry figure coalesced into a woman swathed in filmy skirts and a fringed shawl made dull in the dim light. “Evenin’ gov’nur.” The woman hailed him. “Got more of those?” She cocked her head to the side, smiling with her too-wide mouth.

“Indeed I do.” Sherlock extracted a case smoothly from his pocket, and plucked out a cigarette to pass to the woman. With a flourish, he produced another flicker of mage flame atop his finger to light it. His companion leaned in to light her smoke, inhaling to catch the tobacco burning. Up close, the light did her no favours, revealing the lines framing her mouth, and the cracks fanning out from each of her eyes. Her time on the street wouldn’t be much longer Sherlock mused. One way or the other, she would be off soon.

“Ah, them’s the good stuff. Ta very much.” She sighed appreciatively as she pulled back to take a longer drag. “So, my fine sir. Fancy a bit ‘o company tonight?” She asked like she already knew the answer was no, but had to try for appearances.

“I’m afraid not.” Sherlock said with a downward tilt of his mouth. “But I’m always interested in any information you might have to share.”

“Ere, to my office.” She dropped her voice, jerking her head to indicate the way behind her. “We can talk with no sneaky ears about.”

“All right.” Sherlock agreed amiably, and followed the woman past shadowy structures into the dark of an alley behind. The cherry-red glow of their cigarette tips remained the only light around them.

“I ‘ear you were looking for someone.” She leaned in to speak just above a whisper. "Pretty boy. Arabonian?"

“That’s right. Do you have any news?” Sherlock drawled.

“I might.” The woman took another drag from her cigarette, the tip glowing brighter for a moment like an angry firefly. She blew the smoke back out, and after a thoughtful moment answered him. “Five silver coins, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Sherlock took a last pull from his fag, and dropped it to the alley floor, grinding it out under a boot heel. “Two coins now, and two more after if the news is useful.” 

“Fair enough.” The woman said.

Sherlock fished a few coins from an inner pocket. Conjuring another flicker of mage flame in his free hand, he showed her the prize before dropping it into her outstretched palm.

She pocketed the money quickly somewhere on her person, and regarded him shrewdly. “You know Carlo, on Dumbrey Street, runs the dungeon there? He got some new boys and girls in last few weeks, and one of them looks like the lad you’re after.”

“You’re sure?” Sherlock said. “I’m not paying just for rumors.”

“I’m sure. Saw him myself. Big brown puppy eyes, and curly dark hair, just like yours, sir. Goes by the name of Danny?”

“That sounds like him.” Sherlock agreed. “Is he working full time there?”

“That’s right. Carlo’s got him locked up tight.” She took a long final drag from her cigarette, and dropped it to the ground as well.

“Good work, Nelly.” Sherlock bared his teeth in something not unlike a smile, and flipped the remaining two coins her way.

“Ta.” She said catching them neatly, and dropped them inside her bosom. “A pleasure doing business with you, sir.” She dropped a mock curtsy.

Sherlock returned with a proper sweeping bow. “The pleasure is mine, dear lady.”

Nelly snorted at him. “Oh go on, you.” She waved him away, but the giggle that bubbled past her lips made her sound years younger.

Sherlock sobered as he regarded her. “It’s a cold night, Miss Nelly. Go find a warm spot for the rest of it.”

“It would be warmer with a fine lad to share it with.” She winked, and before he knew what she was about, had darted forward to press her lips against his.

The mage flame in his palm winked out as he dropped his hand out of the way. Her mouth was warm, and tasted of the cigarette she had just smoked. She only landed against him for a moment or two, enough time for a hand to snake around and tweak his arse, and then she was gone, scurrying off into the depths of the alley. Sherlock grinned, patting around his person. She’d gotten the remaining copper coins in his jacket pocket, but the purse and knife tucked inside his boots remained undisturbed.

Sherlock hummed a snatch of music as he turned to head homeward. All in all, things had come together rather nicely that evening he thought. Unfortunately with his mind busy turning facts over like marbles in his fingers, he completely missed the bar fight taking to the streets, until he looked up and saw the bruiser heading his way.

 

~ o ~

“Hold still. I’ll have to put you under if you don’t stop moving.” Healer John Watson-Holmes warned, busy digging gravel from his husband’s lovely backside with some tweezers. If said husband didn’t stop wiggling, he thought, he was definitely adding a _deep sleep_ command to the numbing spell already on his hindquarters.

“Can’t you just magic the gravel away?” A deep voice rolled out above him.

“If I healed the damaged tissues, the gravel would just stay embedded inside you.”

“Couldn’t an earth mage lift them out?”

“They _could_ if we could find one at this time of night, but that would tear bigger holes through the tissues of your backside, and I happen to like your arse intact, my good sir. So STOP MOVING.”

“I can’t help it, it tickles.” Sherlock complained.

John smacked his good flank, and the detective settled.

“What did you do exactly to cause this again?” John asked as he maneuvered more of the rock chips out.

“I fell in an alleyway.”

“You must have gotten dragged down an alleyway.”

“I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” Sherlock huffed, visibly restraining himself from twitching again.

“What was so captivating that you were walking around Delphium in the dead of night with your head in a cloud?”

“I got a solid lead in the Dante Scarsi case.” Sherlock all but gloated as John dropped the last of the gravel into a bowl with a clink.

“Ah that is good news. Now relax, I’m going to send a healing over you.” John carefully laid his hands on Sherlock’s back, closed his eyes, and with a gentle push, sent an image of wholeness over the damaged areas. A warm glow pulsed under his hands, and Sherlock sighed as the energy washed over him.

John was exhausted. He’d been working long shifts with the Browning Street Healers Sanctuary all week. Less than a year out of training, he was the still the new kid on the block, and the one to pull the longest hours. Just last night, he hadn't returned to 221B until near dawn spending the wee hours assisting a midwife in a delivery of breeched twins. It had been grueling work, but a Mrs. Rumpole was now in possession of two fine, healthy baby daughters. The late night had definitely been worth it.

John looked down with some satisfaction at his husband’s healed behind. “You’re finished, love. How do you feel?”

“Mmmm, marvelous.” Sherlock rumbled, turning over to reveal a very healthy erection swelling on his front side.

“You kinky thing.” A crooked smile tipped John's mouth. “That turned you on, didn’t it? Come on, I’ll suck your neck while you wank. I’m too knackered for anything else.”

~ o ~

Sherlock watched his husband sleeping. A warm emotion that wasn't such a rarity now welled up and swept over him. John looked so peaceful sprawled against him in the bed, but his hair needed cutting soon, and the half moons under his eyes had darkened. All Hallows time was fast approaching. It was a holiday that meant much to John, and one he made a point of celebrating. Sherlock decided it could work. He would pull some favours in, and get John off his duties for the week. He should have the Dante Scarsi case wrapped up in a few days, and that would leave room for some other intriguing cases his secretary, Mr. Nicholos Brumby, had left in his inbox. One of them involved a week-long house party in the country, and that could be just the ticket to get John away from the grind for a few days.

Sherlock jostled John as he settled himself more comfortably. He thought he'd woken him, but John merely snorted, and slept on, a flung arm tightening briefly around his middle. Sherlock felt a smile tugging at his mouth until the details of the Scarsi case filtered back into his consciousness.

It was tiresomely pedestrian. A youth from Little Arabonia had revealed his homosexuality to his family, and run off after an ugly row with his ape of a father. The Arabonians could be quite barbaric in their beliefs Sherlock thought with a sigh. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have taken the case, but the mother of the boy was a friend of their housekeeper, Carmina, and frantic to find her missing son. Sherlock had felt obliged to help. Oh, he supposed he should stop calling her Carmina. She was a married woman now, Mrs. Turner. She’d finally agreed to marry her long-time beau, Neville Turner just a few months ago. Sherlock turned his face to bury his nose into John's hair. He inhaled, relaxing into the warm, earthy scent of his own husband, and let his solid presence finally lull him into slumber.

 

~ o ~

John stepped out of the cab, and squinted into the sunlight slanting over the row of townhomes before him. He'd developed a habit of taking lunch with Princess Irene and Kate each fortnight on his half-Wednesdays if they were all in town. Their street was nice enough housing men and women of business, but not connected enough with polite society to worry about neighborhood gossip finding its way to any news rags. Irene welcomed a number of interesting guests who visited at all hours of the day and night, and discretion was her lifeblood. 

Sherlock made a point of stopping by regularly himself, joining Irene every other Thursdays for a certain exclusive supper gathering she held, but he rarely went for the food. Every once in awhile, Sherlock would drop in on the Wednesday lunch, or John might brave the Thursday kink party, but generally they ended up seeing Irene alone. She called the two of them her "Night and Day boys." Technically, Irene was of course married to Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes who was married in turn to John, but everyone who was anyone knew that her companion Kate was her special one.

John turned back to pay the cabbie, and pulled his cloak tighter as he made his way across the road to the bright red door with the metal dragon curled across it. John lifted the curious knocker and rapped it briskly, hearing the echo within. The door opened smoothly almost immediately. He was expected, of course.

A fit young man in a white shirt held the door for him. “Healer Watson-Holmes. How nice to see you. Please come in.” He bowed gracefully to the side as he ushered John indoors.

“Thank you, Gavin.” John nodded as he entered the foyer. Irene maintained a number of comely servants at her townhouse, and the collection of brawny young men who served any number of roles as needed were quite impressive. This new one, Gavin, was a tall thing with bright green eyes, and coal black hair swept into a knot at the back of his neck. John couldn’t help the fact that he had a raging crush on the man already. 

“Is her Highness in the lilac parlour?” John asked with only the slightest of blushes as he relinquished his outer garments. He turned to rub the belly of the small statue of Hestie, Goddess of the hearth, for luck to hide his discomfort. She looked so oddly domestic displayed in a niche next to the dramatic red and black wallpaper of the front hall.

“But of course, sir. Please follow me.” Gavin fairly twinkled as he gestured the way. John tried not to, but he enjoyed the sight of the man’s bottom in his well-tailored trousers all the way up the stairs.

Irene and Kate were comfortably settled in the first-floor parlour, sipping at cups of tea when John found them. It was his favourite room in the house, filled with afternoon light, and made toasty by the fire crackling in the hearth. As they neared the end of October, winter was already making its approach known outside. Kate set her tea aside and rose to greet him, kissing him warmly on both cheeks.

“John, you’re late. We thought you might not make it today.”

“So sorry, but it couldn’t be helped. We had an emergency appendix rupture. But no shop talk. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. It’s herself that’s a lodestone to bear.” Kate rolled her eyes not unkindly toward Irene, still cozily ensconced in a chair with cushions tucked around her.

“You’d be grumpy too if you were as heavy, and as lumpy as a small hippopotamus.” Irene quipped behind them.

“Irene, you look gorgeous, not like a hippo at all.” John smiled as he moved farther into the room to drop a kiss on her upturned cheek.

Irene was at least seven months gone. The baby would most likely be a Yuletide gift arriving a week or two before Winter Solstice. Irene’s waist was of course obscured by the large bump over her middle, but her sharply beautiful face was still as lovely as ever, if only a tad puffy.

“How are you feeling, sweet, other than large?” John asked.

“Exhausted.” Irene snorted.

“Well, that’s perfectly normal.” John nodded. “It’s a lot of work growing a new person. You’re taking the pills the your healer gave every day, yes?”

“Oh, John, don’t fuss. Of course I am, and drinking every vile tonic they send my way. I already have three royal healers fluttering around me like mother hens, I don't need you after me too.”

“Sorry.” John pursed his lips. “Hard to stop being the Healer on my off time.”

“Oh, here I am being stroppy, and you just walked in the door. I’m sorry, John.” Irene blew out a breath.

“You’re marvelous, dear.” Kate said moving closer to pat her shoulder. “The baby’s been so active today, hasn’t he?”

“Gods, yes. I think he’s practicing his football moves in there.” Irene shifted slightly in her chair. “Come here, John, do you want to feel?”

“Oh, yes.” John leaned in to lay a hand to her bump. A smile spread across his face as he felt a distinct kick under his palm.

“See? A Forward for sure.” Irene winced.

“Irene, would you mind if I did a scan . . . I understand if you don’t want . . .”

“Silly man. Shut up, and get on with it.” Irene’s smile belied her sharp words.

John pulled up a chair to sit before her. Kate watched avidly as he placed a hand on either side of Irene’s impressive belly. “Just relax." He said. "This won’t hurt a bit.” 

“That has to be the second biggest lie that I get told these days, but from you, I just might believe it.” Irene sighed.

John smiled, and closed his eyes, settling his consciousness to sink down past the barriers of skin and muscle. John moved until he could feel the little underwater traveller floating inside. A blip of a heart pumped blood through minature limbs, a tiny penis jutting from between the small legs, and a wee hand wrapped around the umbilical cord as if it were playing with. All was as it should be. John could even sense the beginnings of the new consciousness flickering to life within. Suprisingly, the nascent mind seemed to shift, turning his way as if actually aware of the intruder peeping in. All at once the baby flailed, and _pushed,_ unaccountably strong.

John gasped and wrenched free in reflex. When he blinked to awareness, he was slumped in his chair with a bemused Irene studying him.

“I think you startled him.” Irene rubbed her stomach thoughtfully.

“He noticed me.” John rubbed at his eyes. “Pushed me right out. I’ve never had that happen before. Irene, Kate, we’ve got ourselves a mage child in there.”

“I’m not surprised.” Irene smiled tightly. “I knew I was marrying into a magic family. It was a high probability this child would have some talent.”

“I wonder what it will be?” Kate said in some awe.

“It’s too soon to tell that,” John said, “but he’s a healthy, active child, that’s for sure.”

“Me and my sore belly could have told you that.” Irene patted at her bump again. “Come on, let’s have lunch. The footballer and I are starving.” She reached for a small bell nearby and gave it a ring.

They talked of this and that, of mutual people that they knew over the excellent chicken and dumplings for lunch. Violet, the Queen mum, and Sherlock’s irascible mother, was insisting that Irene spend her last month of gestation in confinement at the palace as was traditional. Irene was relishing her last few weeks of relative freedom at her own townhouse as long as she could. She had sadly shut down her usual social gatherings though, and the inactivity wore at her already.

“I hate the waiting.” Irene pouted over the delicious baked apples that cook had made for pudding.

“Poor Lambie. You’re being so very brave though.” Kate sent her a melting look, and Irene smiled fondly back.

John had to smile himself, watching the two of them. He doubted anyone else could have gotten away with calling Irene, _Lambie_ , and lived to tell the tale.

“Don’t worry, Irene.” John reached over to pat her forearm. “No one has ever _stayed_ pregnant permanently. You’re very close, and you’re doing beautifully.”

“Oh, fuck you, John.” Irene snapped, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “Platitudes are all well and good when YOU don’t have the royal baby dancing the rhumba on your ribs every night while you’re trying to sleep.”

“No, I don’t.” John said mildly. “Perhaps I could send you a ‘be well’ to help smooth things out between the two of you?”

“Yes. Please.” Irene sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“No, you’ve every right to be cross.” John said rising to stand behind her, dropping his hands to rest lightly on Irene’s temples. “Just allow yourself to receive as I send you the energy.”

A gentle warmth glowed under John's hands, and the atmosphere in the whole room lightened by several degrees as Irene unwound under his care. Even Kate stood down from her nervous vigilance as Irene all but melted into the cushions around her.

“John?” Irene mumbled.

“Yes, sweet, I’m right here.” John spoke quietly by her ear.

“John, you’re going to have to take that big paddle and the thin whip with you when you go. I’m just not up for it, and Sherlock’s going to be in a right twist if he doesn’t get his arse whipped into shape for an entire month.”

John was a grown man and a trained healer. He refused to find this conversation awkward. “Erm, all right, Irene. Let’s have them wrapped up first though, yeh? I don’t fancy having my business broadcasted all over the city.”

“Oh don’t worry about the neighbors spreading any tales.” Kate piped in nodding toward the walls. “We’re pretty sure the ones next door that way are running an opium den, and the trader on that side is fencing stolen goods.”

John huffed out a short laugh. “And I can’t imagine why Queen Violet insists this royal baby be birthed at the palace.”

Irene let out a gentle snore from where she had collapsed back against her chair.

Kate put a finger to her lips as she smiled down at her. “Poor dear.” She whispered. “She really hasn’t been sleeping well lately.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll see myself out.” John said keeping his voice down. “I need to get going, and I’ll have a word with Irene’s healers about a sleeping tonic I recommend that should help with insomnia, and not hurt the babe.”

Kate stopped him at the doorway with a hand to his arm. “John, wait a moment in the foyer before you go. Irene was serious. She has some things for you to take home with you.”

“All right.” John agreed dropping a farewell kiss to her cheek before he made his way down the stairs. He collected his coat and hat from the attending footman, this one lean and blond, and waited for his package. When the bloke Gavin reappeared to place a not-insubstantial case into John’s hand with a wink, John was cursed with yet another telltale flush across his cheeks.

“Ah, ta.” John managed before escaping to the chill outside. He hefted the bag higher over his shoulder to better balance the weight. Who knew what Irene had sent home as a present for Sherlock. It could be anything from clothes pins to a build-your-own stock and pillory kit. Going by the heft of the case, he was choosing the latter. John snorted to himself, and started off, tucking his head down against the brisk wind now blowing intently down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, I confess I jumped the gun a bit on starting this story. I plan to spend much of August on holiday touring around the UK by train, and though I had decided to start this story after I got back, this chapter bubbled out anyway. I WILL finish this tale, but there may be an extended hiatus while I'm out gathering real-world experiences. :)


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes so much effort to plan a holiday away - especially when espionage has to be factored in.

~ o ~

Sherlock checked the address scribbled on the scrap of paper in his hand, and pushed it back deeply into his pocket. He turned right, and began the process of threading his way through the food stalls set before him, making his way past the bright vegetables and silvery fish out on display.

"Good day sir. Fancy some eels? They're fresh this morning." A vendor briefly blocked his way, and Sherlock shook his head as he neatly side-stepped the woman to continue on.

Sherlock had tasked several of his ragtag army of street informants with watching the brothel known as "Carlo’s Dungeon" over the past week. A number of the whores had been seen emerging to visit the nearby markets and temples. Carlo himself had been spotted meeting with a few low-life individuals at nearby dives for a drink or a meal, but anyone answering to the description of Dante Scarsi had been scarce. This of course didn’t rule out the youth being held there, merely that he wasn’t allowed the same level of small personal freedoms that the other prostitutes enjoyed. 

Bribing the washer woman who collected the linens from the brothel had gleaned better information. She confirmed that a new boy was being “broken in,” and confined to his rooms for the duration. The woman had reported seeing a beautiful, dark-haired youth, languid and under watch – almost certainly drugged, as she gathered the soiled bedding from his room. 

Like opium use or dog fighting, prostitution was not strictly legal in Brettona, but it was impossible to completely stamp out that which appealed to the baser elements of the human psyche. People liked what they liked. As long as it didn’t cross too many lines of propriety, the authorities would turn a blind eye, or allow a palm to be greased to let the inequity continue. That was life, but a fifteen-year old boy, being held with dubious consent to engage in prostitution crossed the lines in Sherlock’s book. The bother of a personal trip to inspect the brothel was still called for, but the satisfaction of springing the missing boy from such a trap would make up for the tediousness of the case.

First though, Sherlock needed to confirm that Dante Scarsi had a home to return to. He curled his top lip in unconscious disgust as he left the main market in the part of Delphium known as Little Arabonia, and headed toward a quieter side street. His destination was a mid-sized restaurant called Angelo’s, and he found it easily enough tucked into a row of cheerful shops, and businesses. A bell announced his arrival as Sherlock stepped into the warm interior. He quickly scanned the dining room, noting the single customer, a grey-haired man nursing a cup of coffee in the corner. The place was nearly deserted in this hour between lunch and supper as figured, but the clink of crockery, and the distant hum of voices from the back confirmed that activity still continued in the kitchen.

Sherlock shut the door behind him, his cloak ends swirling around him, and settled himself at a small table near the front window. He studied the restaurant in quick survey as he waited. The place was doing well, the walls were recently white-washed, and the tables and chairs looked worn but in good shape. They obviously attracted a steady clientele of both regulars and foot traffic throughout the day. The food probably wasn’t half bad he surmised with a small hum. He hadn’t come to sample the local cuisine though, and when a young woman, her hair pulled into a smooth twist at the back of her head, appeared to take his order, he simply told her “Tea, and I’d like to speak to Angelo, please.”

Angelo, a round, mild-looking fellow, arrived shortly after the cup of tea did, wiping his hands on a cloth that he dropped at the bar on his way to greet Sherlock. “Good afternoon. I am Angelo, and you, good sir?” He smiled down at Sherlock, confident in his ability to charm his well-heeled visitor whatever the matter at hand. He was wrong.

“Sherlock Holmes, and I’m here to speak to you about your son, Dante. Please sit.” Sherlock gestured to the chair opposite him, and watched as the carefully constructed façade of the man’s face fell revealing the lines of pain underneath. “Your wife has hired me to find him.” Sherlock continued. “I wish to confirm that this is your desire as well.”

Angelo sank into the seat, and ran a square hand over his face to compose himself. “What you know about my boy? You find him?” The man’s borrowed language slipped into the sing-song of his native tongue as he swung haunted eyes to Sherlock. 

Sherlock sat back and considered the Arabonian. His distress was certainly real, but his acceptance of his son was still up for grabs. “I might have. I still have to confirm it though before I take any further steps.”

“Where, where is he? I go, you take me now.” The man had half risen from his seat before Sherlock held out a hand, and motioned him back down. 

“This is a somewhat . . . delicate operation.” Sherlock said slowly. “Rushing in ahead of time when victory is not guaranteed would merely give his captors time to relocate him.” Sherlock leaned in and narrowed his eyes for effect. “You must realize Mr. Scarsi that young people on the streets, . . . _children_ ,” Sherlock drawled out the last word with some relish, “are often pushed to actions simply to survive that would not be accepted in polite company. I’m not sure you’ll want your son back when you hear where he’s been.”

Angelo looked away, and finally noticed the old man dozing over his cup. “Hey Marcus, you old goat." he barked. "Go home, your wife needs you.” 

The man grumbled back, but it was good natured, and he rose, leaving a few coins on the table before he called farewell and shuffled out the door.

“Yes, yes, I want my son back.” Angelo ground out quietly when he turned back to face the detective.

“Even if he is _a faggot better dead than fit to live in the eyes of God?”_ Sherlock flicked ice-cold eyes over the man as he repeated his words back to him, gathered earlier from Dante’s mother.

“Mr. Holmes.” Angelo drew in a shuddering breath and spread his hands on the table pressing down before finding the words to reply. “I am a simple man. I come from a farm in my country. We grew up with simple ways, we knew what was right and what was wrong, but I . . . I love my boy. He is my life. I do anything to get him back. I’m sorry. I say bad things, I no mean them. I need Dante back, please. Please help us.”

Two men from the kitchen quietly entered the back of the room to wipe tables and lay fresh silverware down. Sherlock glanced over at them, and noted when one looked up, catching his gaze with a heated look of his own before quickly dropping his eyes.

“You have a waiter here who is gay, you know.” Sherlock mused.

Angelo startled, leaning back quickly in his seat. “Who? How you know this?” 

“I don’t know his name.” Sherlock made a dismissive wave, not removing his eyes from Angelo’s face, but continuing to track the progress of the staff behind him. A fork dropped with a sudden clang against the floor.

Angelo swiveled and called out to the men in quick Arabonian, ordering them back into the kitchen while he had business in the front. The tall one ran his eyes over Sherlock again before they left the room, and Sherlock suppressed a small smile.

“The point is,” Sherlock continued when Angelo faced him once more, “in any group, a given segment of the population will be homosexual. It doesn’t have to be seen as a freakish anomaly. You do realize that in Brettona it isn’t a crime to love as you will?”

“You can’t understand.” Angelo returned shaking his head. “You leave your homeland, but you want to bring your kids up right, yes? You want them to know their people, their ways. It’s hard, so hard - you see them slipping away to the big-city life.”

“Mr. Scarsi, a legacy of hate and intolerance is nothing to pass onto your children.” Sherlock replied quietly. “Unless you accept Dante as he is, bringing him back will do no good. He’ll simply leave again, and in a few years, when he reaches his majority, you’ll have no right to drag him back. Mend your fences now, or risk not knowing your son for the rest of your life.”

The heavy-set man dropped his head into his hands and groaned. When he raised wet eyes to Sherlock, he seemed to have finally settled something within himself. “Nothing is more important than my boy. I do whatever you say. Now tell me, where is Dante?”

 

~ o ~

Sherlock lifted the dragon doorknocker, silly thing, and let it fall against the door of Irene’s townhouse. He wasn’t expected, and he shifted the bundle in his arms as he waited, knocking a second time before the heavy red door was finally opened to admit him. 

“Your Highness. My apologies at keeping you waiting.” The servant bowed, and ushered Sherlock into the foyer. It was that saucy new lad that Irene had hired recently. Sherlock was completely aware that the man held more than a passing likeness to his person, albeit a slightly more-muscular version of himself. Irene did like to play with fire. 

“Greg, is it?” Sherlock asked him, placing his package on a side table before turning around to slowly run his eyes over the man’s white shirt and black trousers. He’d be lucky to sit down in the form-fitting clothes without splitting a seam somewhere. 

“Gavin, sir.” The man spoke politely enough dipping his head, but Sherlock could hear the cheek running as an undercurrent to everything the man said or did. Irene must have paid extra for that. 

“I’m curious, Gavin.” Sherlock titled his head to better observe the twitch in the man’s fingers as he drawled his name out, ending it with a flick to the last consonant. Two could play at this subtext of insult. 

“Sir?” The servant held his ground, merely raising his eyebrows in polite inquiry as Sherlock kept him waiting, pinned under the full attention of his stare. The man twitched his fingers on the right hand again as he waited, but that was the only tell to his impatience as he waited on Sherlock to finish his thought. He had good nerves, Sherlock had to give him that. Very likely ex-military. He shared that in common with John. 

“I was wondering, Gavin. Did Healer Watson-Holmes happen to stop by this afternoon for tea?” 

“Yes, he did, sir.” 

“Were you perhaps the one to open the door and show him in?” Sherlock let his gaze slide over the man’s sculpted biceps and pectorals just visible through the taut fabric. His eyes lingered at the hollow of his throat revealed by the undone top two buttons of his shirt, before returning to bore holes into his fetching almond-shaped green eyes. Sherlock didn’t fancy shagging a copy of himself, but he could see that the man had an appeal. Interesting, he was also bisexual. Again, like John. 

“I was, Your Highness.” The man’s tongue swept out briefly to wet his lower lip. 

Ah, he was getting nervous. Excellent, Sherlock thought as he zeroed in the for the kill. Almost imperceptibly he had shifted closer to the man, until the servant was forced to take a step backwards, moving toward the wall behind his back like a wild creature cornered. The man had a stone or two on him in sheer muscle mass, but Sherlock was pleased to note that he had an inch on him in height. He used it well as he loomed over his prey for his next move. 

“Did His Grace, the Royal Consort, Healer Watson-Holmes perhaps notice your well-defined arse as you showed him upstairs to dine with Princess Irene and Kate?” Sherlock allowed the smallest of smiles to hover over the edge of his lips as he spoke. _It’s a joke see, only a small tease,_ the expression seemed to say. 

The man looked downright afraid at this point. Ah, it had taken him a moment to get there, but he had finally caught up. He wasn’t completely stupid. Again, Irene chose her servants with a discriminating touch, of course. 

“Erm, yes, sir. I believe he did.” The man’s voice came out with nary a shake, but he swallowed afterwards, his adam’s apple bobbing quickly in the smooth column of his throat.

“It’s fine, you know, if Healer Watson-Holmes notices your fit little arse. It’s there encased in all that straining fabric for just this purpose, yes?” Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He put out one long finger and let it trail lightly over the man’s throat ghosting over its length before resting at the suprasternal notch at its base. The man’s eyes flickered closed as he nodded. Sherlock knew he was a hypocrite of the highest order. He was never one to shy away from using his physical appearance to sway those around him, but this was about John, and nothing that might hurt John was allowed to remain near him. Even the sting of embarrassment at a house where he was meant to be at ease was too much. 

Sherlock moved in even closer until he was nearly pressing against the man, the butler’s back sealed against the wall as Sherlock leaned in to speak directly against his ear. “It would be fine for Healer Watson-Holmes to notice your charms, of which I am sure you are well aware. It would not be acceptable for John to ever feel distressed about noticing your arse when you wiggle it in his face. I should not like to think,” Sherlock snapped out the ending consonant with another satisfying pop, “that John would ever feel uncomfortable in the home of my wife and her partner."

“No sir. No Your Highness. Of course not, sir.” The man was practically babbling under the weight of Sherlock’s breath against this cheek. Sherlock stepped away with an alarming speed, and the servant’s eyes snapped back open at the rush of cooler air. His pupils were blown wide, and a fine sheen of sweat had beaded up over his forehead and upper lip.

“I would hate to see a fine specimen such as yourself, who no doubt possesses excellent skills as an under-butler, out of his situation and looking for work again so quickly.” 

A shadow passed over the man’s eyes at that, and Sherlock watched him struggle to find the right reply that would satisfy him, when the sharp voice of Irene rang clearly down the stairwell saving him the trouble. “Sherlock, you are not allowed to fire my personal staff. Stop harassing my man, and come bring me whatever you got me at the bakery, I’m starving.” 

“Ah, dear wife,” Sherlock called up. “I might not be able to fire your staff, but my brother, the king, could certainly have an individual banished from the country who was thought to be a security risk to the state.” Sherlock let his eyes rake over the servant again, but a mask had fallen over his features, and he was standing at a perfect butler version of parade rest awaiting instructions. Sherlock was almost surprised. Apparently the man did actually have some training as a household domestic after all. 

“Enough, you’ve had your fun.” Irene called back down. “Gavin, go tell cook we’ll need another pot of tea and plates. Sherlock, upstairs.” There was no mistaking the crack of command in Irene’s voice. Both men nodded warily at one another before Gavin slipped off, presumably to the kitchens, and Sherlock turned to the stairway. He tossed his cloak over the bannister, and collected his parcel before taking the stairs two at a time to the upper floor. 

Irene was in her usual haunt, the lilac parlour, with her feet up on the settee that best caught the last of the afternoon light. She let the book she had been reading fall to the seat beside her. “You overgrown puppy.” Irene chided Sherlock as he came in, and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Must you have cock fights in my doorway?”

“The man was teasing John. It wasn’t a tenable situation.” 

“Ah, I see.” Irene let one perfect eyebrow arch up high. “That is a problem. I’ll have a word with him later. But enough of that, what did you bring me?” Irene looked as eager as a child on Winter Solstice morning finding her stocking filled with treats. 

Sherlock almost laughed, but he had learned that sustenance for people who were gestating was no laughing matter. With only the smallest of smirks, he pulled opened the cardboard box he held with a flourish to reveal the nut and fruit studded bundt cake that huddled within. 

Irene clapped her hands together. “My favorite cake!” she crowed. “Someone was in Little Arabonia today. What took you all the way down there?” She fixed him with narrowed eyes. 

“I don’t suppose you’d believe that I simply went there to get you this cake.” Sherlock purred.

“Of course not, darling, though I appreciate that you got it while you were there.”

“You’re right, I was there for a case. One that I could use your help with.” Sherlock moved to set the cake down, but Irene waved it over. After she had pinched a small bit from the side of the confection, Sherlock placed it on the low table next to the settee.

“I’m not sure I’ll be much help being the size and shape of a beached whale at this point.” Irene quipped, popping the bite of cake into her mouth, and licking her fingers clean as neat as a cat.

“Nonsense, Madame, your mind is still as sharp as a tack . . . when it is not otherwise engaged with matters of food or rest.” Sherlock softened a bit as he came to sit on the footstool before Irene transferring her feet to his lap. He slid her slippers off to begin a thorough massage of each foot in turn, working the muscles and tendons with steady, knowing thumbs. Irene's head lolled back onto the cushions behind her. A small sound much like a purr worked its way from deep in her throat.

“But the case can wait a moment. How are you doing, pet, and where’s Kate?”

“I’m feeling monstrous, but keep rubbing like that, and I might let you live.” Irene sighed. “Kate is visiting a friend. She should be back shortly. I thought you might be her when you came in.”

“Ah, just as well that I’ve missed her. Kate’s . . . not happy with me as of late.” Sherlock dug his thumbs into Irene’s instep, and she moaned appreciatively. 

“Kate isn’t cross with you. It’s just the pregnancy thing.” Irene waved the hand now free of cake his way. “It’s putting her on edge. John scanned me today.”

“Hmmmm?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the non sequitur, and paused in his massaging efforts. “All is well with the pollywog I hope?”

“Perfectly.” Irene opened one eye. “Keep rubbing. The babe managed to deflect John’s scan. Definitely a budding mage.” 

“Ah, interesting.” Sherlock was pleased, but you’d have to know him well to detect it in the neutral face he wore. Irene knew him well.

“Yes, interesting, but still uncomfortable doing the back flip in my belly. Do you want to . . .” Irene motioned to said belly, pushing the hem of her wide blouse away from her prodigious middle.

“Yes of course.” Sherlock scooted closer to Irene until he could lay his lips against the taut skin of her bare bump. “Time to resume the lessons. Helloooo in there. Hello Cornelius, how are you today?”

“Sherlock. We are not calling him Cornelius.” Irene huffed.

“Indeed. Good afternoon, Acanthus, my good sir. Where were we, ah yes, the tensile strengths of popular fibres . . .”

“Does he really need to know this, now?” Irene asked with a laugh.

“No good information ever goes amiss.” Sherlock countered letting his voice rise and fall in a soothing fashion. “But of course it’s simply the sound of my voice the baby becomes acquainted with, not, alas, the content of the words just yet.” 

“Well, I’m bored enough as it is. I don’t fancy hearing you drone on about _fibres_ to our son all damned day.” Irene’s belly rocked as she snorted, and Sherlock fancied he could feel a foot against his cheek as the child shifted slightly. 

“Ah, well then, Wheatley, let’s go over the steps for enacting safe rope bondage then, shall we? Your learned mother can correct any faux pas that I might make.” 

Sherlock continued on in this silly fashion, until the blond footman arrived bearing a tea tray, Randall was his name, Sherlock recalled idly. The couple parted to accept the tea, sandwiches, and sliced cake as Randall plated the dessert that Irene had already ruthlessly attacked. Sherlock accepted a slice of cake, and dug in. It really was a delicious pastry.

“You may have another slice, you know.” Irene chortled as she watched Sherlock licking the last crumbs from his fork. 

“Don’t mind if I do.” Sherlock said, rising to slice more of the rich dessert.

“Cut me another piece while you’re there.” Irene urged, passing him her empty plate. 

“Ah, I see you had an ulterior motive in offering me more.” Sherlock observed wryly.

“I always have an ulterior motive. “ Irene agreed. “No, a bigger slice than that.” She said, waiting until he moved the knife farther along the cake before she nodded approval.

“Thank you for the gift that you sent home with John, by the way.” Sherlock quirked up the side of his mouth as he passed Irene her plate.

“You’re just fishing.” Irene scolded, accepting her cake. “You haven’t had time to see John yet today.” 

“Ah, so you did send something home with him. What is it?” 

“I can’t tell you what it is. That would spoil the surprise. You’ll have to open the case together.” Irene pinched her lips tightly together.

“Ah. It must be something new for John, something that will unsettle him. Excellent.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together. John’s occasional sexual embarrassment was a beautiful thing, and something that Sherlock wished to savour all to himself. He was greedy that way. 

“Not saying a word.” Irene smiled, and waved her fork at him before spearing another bite. 

“I’ll just go have a peep at your special cupboard then, shall I? I’ll simply see what’s missing.” 

“Infuriating man, don’t you dare.” Irene tossed a throw pillow toward his head. “Leave it be.”

“Peace!” Sherlock cried warding off the pillow with a raised forearm. “All right, I promise. I’ll wait until John and I have time to inspect the case together.”

“So speaking of cases, what’s this one you’re working on, and how can I help?” Irene asked once enough food to quiet the beast within had been ingested, and more serious topics could be considered. 

“I have a run-away teen from Little Arabonia, gay.” Sherlock waved a careless hand in the general direction of that area of Delphium. “My house-keeper is cozy with his mother. If I don’t find the boy quickly it will be cold soup, and unwashed socks for the foreseeable future for me.”

“Ah.” Irene smiled slightly. Sherlock was grateful that she didn’t ramble on about his soft heart showing, but he could see it in her eyes nonetheless. “You’ve already located the boy, haven’t you. You just need information at this point.”

“Quite.” Sherlock agreed. “Carlo’s Dungeon on Dumbrey Road - what do you know of it?”

“Oh, a dodgy place to be sure.” Irene nodded. “ I’ve been there at least three times for parties. What do you need to know about it?”

“Clever girl. Tell me everything.” Sherlock let a smile curl up one side of mouth as he leaned in closer to rest his elbows across his knees. 

 

~ o ~

It was well past dark when Sherlock left Irene’s townhouse. Kate had returned and been marginally more pleasant than usual. The cake had smoothed relations somewhat. He couldn’t help it if Kate didn’t always appreciate his certain brand of intelligent wit. 

He was surprised, but not that much when a sleek black carriage pulled alongside him as soon as he left Irene’s block, and turned onto a main thoroughfare. A footman jumped down, opened the door, and smoothly motioned him inside. 

With a sigh, and barely detected eye roll, Sherlock climbed inside, and settled himself on the padded bench across from his brother, Mycroft, King of Brettona. 

“Mycroft, do you have a trace on me?” Sherlock asked, folding his arms before his chest.

“I’m hurt, brother dear. Why would I do that? I just happened to be in the neighborhood . . .”

“But you do have a tracking spell on me.” Sherlock persisted. 

“All right, yes. I had a custom spell created that keeps me alerted to the location of members of the royal blood at all times. I just . . . know where they are. I couldn’t very well have you excepted from the spell - that would have been ridiculously complicated. Besides, you get into the most trouble anyway.”

“What, all members of the royal blood? All the cousins?” Sherlock leaned forward and widened his eyes. He was somewhat incredulous at the burden of keeping such a spell active.

“Well, to be honest, it does get a bit diluted once you get down to the farther branches of the family. If a third cousin comes nearby, say, it’s really just a bit of an itch that I feel.” A small smile played about Mycroft’s lips.

Sherlock snorted rudely. For a truthsayer, one whose talent allowed him to know instantly if someone was telling the truth or not, you would think Mycroft would feel honor bound to tell the truth himself. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Mycroft was a consummate prevaricator and bender of facts. It wasn’t in the slightest bit fair. Only when Sherlock was able to touch Mycroft and borrow his talent for a few minutes was he able to completely believe anything his brother said. 

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit of yours, brother dear?” Sherlock asked. Best to get this little reunion over as quickly as possible, he had things yet to do with the rest of the evening.

“I have it under good authority that you plan to spend a week at a house party at Basketville Hall in a fortnight.”

“Your information is of course accurate as always. What of it? I want to give John a holiday.”

“A noble sentiment, I’m sure. Unlike some people, your spouse works quite hard.”

“What is that meant to imply? I WORK.” Sherlock spat out.

“Calm yourself, Prince William. Your occupation is not in question.” Mycroft raised a placating palm before him. “In fact, I need your help with a delicate situation. I have a Gallatian diplomat who should also be in attendance at said house party. He is . . . suspected to be passing sensitive information that he shouldn’t have access to back to his native government. We wish to keep him under surveillance and see who he comes into contact with in the next few weeks. He . . . has been seen keeping company with an old friend of yours lately.”

“Oh?” Sherlock didn’t want to feed Mycroft a straight line, but it would help hurry this thing along.

“Yes, Victor Trevor. As you know, he himself was under suspicion of treason a few years ago . . .” 

“Which he was completely cleared from. That whole thing was a misunderstanding. Honestly Mycroft, are people tarred forever for some indiscretions of their youth?”

“Of course not, but where there is smoke, there is often fire.” 

“What the hell does that even mean?” Sherlock huffed. 

“Nothing, brother dear. So you’ll take on the job?”

“Give me the file.” Sherlock sighed. ““I’m certain that if. . .” Sherlock flipped open the sheaf of papers and read from the top, “Monsieur Antoine Croque is at the gathering, I won’t be able to help noticing him.”

“I thank you. The crown thanks you.” Mycroft inclined his head graciously making Sherlock feel even more uncouth than usual which always brought out an extra level of his churlishness in his behaviour. Really everything with Mycroft became a downward spiral so quickly. 

“The crown is either an inanimate object, or a concept of mass hallucination, but I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll try, but no promises.” Sherlock huffed. 

“Surely _trying_ is all that any of us can do.” Mycroft spread his palms in sympathy. Sherlock narrowed his eyes looking for any shreds of sarcasm, but was disappointed to find none. “And my apologies for detaining you this evening. Obviously I’m keeping you from something pressing. Where are you off to next if I might ask?” Mycroft’s delicate eyebrows rose slightly as he allowed his eyes to roam over his attire. 

Sherlock had kitted himself out rather thoroughly from the extensive costume supply that he kept in a back cupboard at Irene’s. He had done quite a nice job if he did say so himself. From his brown checked trousers to his blond wig and moustache, he hardly looked like himself at all. 

“A sex club.” Sherlock answered as briefly as possible. 

“Surely a love life with two spouses has not left you in need of the services of a brothel?” It was difficult to tell if Mycroft was joking or not.

“It’s for a case.” Sherlock ground out, resisting the childish urge to roll his eyes yet again. 

“Of course. Why don’t I give you a lift? You can look over the notes on the way there. This file isn’t something we can simply leave lying around.”

“Fine. Just drop me off a few streets away. I’m not meant to look particularly wealthy tonight, and getting out of one of your carriages would somewhat blow my cover.”

“Of course, brother.” Mycroft agreed, tapping the roof of the carriage with the walking stick at his side to signal the driver. “I wish you . . . happy hunting.”

 

~ o ~

 

John barely had the energy to make it up the stairs when he finally returned to 221B for the last time that evening. He’d had a shift at the free clinic after supper, and had left a note for Sherlock in case he'd forgotten John’s tricky schedule. By the looks of the untouched flat though, his husband hadn't been home since that morning. John yawned, and stripped his clothes off in the bedroom, kicking them toward the hamper. Perhaps he was a bit spoiled, but their housekeeper, Carmina, was a godsend. John debated simply tumbling into the bed, but decided that any nasties picked up at the clinic were best washed off immediately. A middle-aged woman had come in toward the end of the shift coughing, but thrilled that she was pregnant again. John had had to give her the bad news that it was menopause that had dried her courses and not an impending babe. She had cried a river at that point, unspooling a tale of her husband who longed for a boy, and the six girl children already at home between her and their second wife. 

“Oh, sir, I’m a’feared he’ll take a new wife if we don’t give him a boy, and we really can’t afford that many new mouths to feed.”

John had handed her a handkerchief, and an herbal tea for her cough, and patted her on the back telling her to bring her husband in at his usual office for a little talk about family planning some day soon.

“We can’t pay sir, not at the regular Healers'.” She had shaken her head.

“Look, no worries, hand this note to the woman at the front desk. I’ll make time to see you, free of charge.” John had reassured her. 

It was often the mind, and the spirit that needed healing more than the body John mused as he pushed the screen back that separated the bath from the bedroom. He twisted the taps to fill the tub with wonderfully steaming water, and sank in with a grateful sigh. There were fancier, more expensive indulgences in the world, but a hot bath on a cold night topped John’s list of greatest pleasures. An even greater joy would have been the chance to share the bath with a certain tall, lanky genius, but their separate pursuits had kept them apart more than John liked as of late. 

When he had deemed his soak long enough, John unstoppered the bath, and stood, grabbing a nearby towel to dry off. He stepped from the tub, and secured it around his waist. John meant to decide on some night clothes, but exhaustion pulled at his bones. He lay down for just a moment to consider his options, but found himself drifting off before any conclusions could be reached. His next impressions were a mad jumble featuring a particularly grabby octopus that had somehow managed to encase him in some very limber tentacles. Full consciousness returned as the octopus morphed into the warm body spooned against his back, caressing him simply everywhere. One long hand stroked lightly over his belly and cock, another cupped his arse, while a very talented tongue traced patterns along the back of his neck. The cockstand that nestled against the back of his thigh was electrifying. John couldn’t help the shudder that ran through his entire body as a wave of desire crested over him. 

“Oh good, you’re awake.” A sinfully deep voice purred behind him. 

“Hard to sleep through that.” John sighed, still half-asleep. 

“Yes, it is hard, or getting there.” A thread of laughter rumbled through that melting-dark-chocolate, and jungle-cats-on-the-prowl voice that John loved so much. 

“Mmmm.” John wiggled back, rubbing his arse against the heat behind him. He was rewarded with a low chuckle, and a wayward hand wrapping itself around his rising erection. 

John hissed through his teeth and tried to roll over, but the arm across his flank tightened and held him in place. He struggled half-heartedly against it. “I want to see you, love.” He complained. 

“No you mustn’t see me. I could be anyone.” The low voice drawled as teeth nipped and worried at his earlobe. “I’ve crept into your room to have my wicked way with you. You can't see my face. You can only know my title - the dreaded love pirate.” 

John would have laughed, but his prick positively twitched at this bit of tomfoolery. “Ah, then what shall I call you, good sir?” He asked with a bit of gravel in his own voice. 

After a heartbeat as some very quick wheels turned in a very clever brain, the answer he received was “Captain Dashing.” 

John did laugh at this, but his giggles flowed into a groan as his night-time lover stepped up his game, working a slick finger between his arse cheeks and over his pucker, breaching the entrance to slide inside. John's muscles went liquid. That impossible mouth continued licking and sucking hot kisses across his back, while the other hand trailed back and forth over his front, tweaking nipples, and gliding down his belly, to pull leisurely along his cock. Sensations flowed from every side of him, and John’s brain threatened to simply explode from the work of processing it all. 

“I like you like this – all warm and pliant. I need to fuck you in your sleep more often.” His lover rumbled by his ear, and John tipped over just like that, pumping stripes over those elegant fingers holding him, coming in waves of bliss. 

“Put your legs together, boy.” The man behind him growled as soon as he had caught his breath. John complied as well as he could in his jellied state, moving languidly as if under water. His lover ran wet fingers to coat his inner thighs, then lined himself up to thrust between them, bumping his prick against the back of John’s bollock with each pass. John felt as wrung out as a rag doll, but being humped from behind by his sexy stranger was enflaming. John couldn't help the groan that rippled out from his throat. He tightened his thighs as much as he could to give his lover more to slide against. The scoundrel erupted with such a deep, booming cry that John felt he could have come again to the mere sound of it if he’d had anything left to give. 

Finally, when they had both shuddered their last, and were breathing normally again, Sherlock let John roll onto his back.

“Well, hello there, Captain Dashing.” John smiled, and wove his fingers into Sherlock’s mess of curls to urge him down into a sweet kiss. 

“Ah, boy, I’ll have to take you with me now that you’ve seen my face.” Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around John’s arse to pull him even closer as lips and tongues met in a lazy dance. 

“All right. Where are we sailing off to then? I must tell you, I fancy a holiday somewhere warm.” John teased as they parted briefly before diving back in for another kiss.

“How about Dartmoor?” Sherlock mumbled against his lips. 

“Dartmoor? That isn’t very warm.” John laughed, pulling back to regard him in the near dark of the bedroom. 

“True,” Sherlock agreed with a small shrug, “but I thought you needed a holiday. I was invited to a week-long party at a country manor in Dartmoor for All Hallows, and I accepted for the two of us.”

“Oh, love. That doesn’t sound half bad, but I’m mad booked this time of year.”

“You’re not.” 

“But Healer Moreson . . .” 

“Has agreed to give you the time off.”

“And my shift at the free clinic . . .” John asked, more suspicious than pleased.

“Is being covered by other healers. Honestly, John it isn’t as if reorganizing a schedule takes THAT much brain power.”

“And you did all this without consulting me first?” John asked with a sigh.

“Well, I _had_ considered simply kidnapping you the day we needed to leave, and telling you on the way there, but we had that discussion after last time, about advance notice . . .” 

“Yes. We did have that conversation.” John agreed.

“John, we’ve hardly seen each other in a month. I wanted . . . to spend some time with you.”

“Oh love, it actually sounds marvelous, but won’t a week stuck at a house party with card games, and small talk, and PEOPLE drive you spare?”

“Well, there is the small matter of an unsolved spate of thefts at the manor in question, and a Gallatian diplomat in suspicion of treason in attendance that Mycroft wants us to spy on.” 

“Oh, well. That’s all right then.” John laughed. 

“John, you aren’t angry?”

“I couldn’t be angry with you very long if my life depended on it, love.” John leaned over and kissed the tip of Sherlock’ nose. “Would you mind grabbing a cloth? We’re a little sticky, and I have to get at least a few more hours of sleep before I’m due back at the Healers Sanctuary.”

“For you, John, the world.” Sherlock replied.

John chuckled. “Just a damp cloth will do for now . . . my Captain Dashing, you sexy thing.” 

~ o ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a fun fact regarding the legal age of sexual consent in historical Europe:
> 
> "The French Napoleonic code provided the legal context in 1791 when it established an age of consent of 11 years. The age of consent, which applied to boys as well as girls, was increased to 13 years in 1863." Other nations soon followed suit.
> 
> Jeez. Pretty creepy, right?
> 
> Since the legal age of consent was generally _much_ lower in the past than it is today, it's hard to say that Dante Scarsi is having underage sex in historical context. However, since this universe has a very modern mindset, and we 21st century people are reading this story with "sixteen" or so in mind, I have listed "underage prostitution" in the tags.
> 
> \---------
> 
> Hey folks, I've returned after my several-month haitus. Thanks for checking back in on the story! I have to say, I had a marvelous time touring the UK. Sadly, I did not run into Benedict Cumberbatch anywhere, though I did ramble over Hampstead Heath, and went to see Martin Freeman in "Richard III." My friend and I sat in the front row, got sprayed with stage blood, and screamed so loudly at curtain call that Martin's eyes got huge, and the other actors laughed at us. (I know they were thinking, Oh God, there's Americans in the audience again. ;) It was glorious.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone seems to be out of sorts on a dismal, rainy day.

~ o ~

Sherlock walked briskly down the steps to 221B, and cut through Mrs. Hudson’s garden to reach the alley behind. A light rain had pattered down throughout the day, and Sherlock tugged the hood of his cloak higher to better cover his face. He was pleased to note the nondescript coach and four waiting for him by a tavern on the busy road a few blocks from Baker Street. His presence as a member of the royal family was needed this evening at the palace, but he continued to resist Mycroft’s attempts to collect him at his doorstep. Using his middle names of “Sherlock Holmes” over “Prince William Carrington” was a bit of a disguise to continue his detective work in partial obscurity, but he didn’t need royal carriages before his house every time he turned around. He patted his person surreptitiously to assure himself that the small package he carried was still well hidden in an inside pocket.

“Good evening, sir.” A lean, dark-haired footman leapt to attention, and swung the door of the carriage open at Sherlock's approach. One of the horses shook its head as Sherlock passed it. They were still a bit restless - good the coach hadn’t been waiting too long he thought. Sherlock nodded at the man as he slid into the dark interior of vehicle, and waited for them to head off, pulling into the usual late-afternoon traffic.

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully at a thumbnail as he watched Delphium slide by outside the window. His trip to Carlo’s Dungeon a few nights before had been only partially successful. He’d spent far too many hours ordering juice drinks with a splash of alcohol, twiddling his fake mustache, and waiting for a glimpse of Dante in the brothel’s lounge. The closest he’d come to seeing the youth was a peek through a quickly closed door as a portly red-faced gentleman made his way back to his appointment. Sherlock’s wanderings through the back rooms had been cut short by the large bouncer who had firmly returned him to the public rooms as he’d blathered on about looking for the loo. Sherlock had inquired about getting a time with the new boy himself, and had been informed he needed to join a waitlist. Sherlock could only shake his head and hope they got to Dante before too much damage was done. He shuddered thinking about the tart who had plopped down next to him, and licked a stripe up his neck before he had archly informed her that women were not his area. The things he did for undercover work, honestly.

So lost in thought was he, that it felt like but a moment before the carriage was pulling in through the gates of the palace. Sherlock snorted softly at himself - riding about in cushy carriages like some pudgy lordling. He remembered a time when he’d thought nothing of scaling a tree to scramble over the palace walls to keep his comings and goings less noted. He was definitely slowing down if riding in a royal carriage was his preferred travel option. Ah well, middle age crept over the best of rogues lucky enough to live that long. At one time in his life, he would not have predicted that he might grow to be this old. Still, thirty wasn’t actually ancient, and he still had his wits and his strength about him. Perhaps he had simply acquired some wisdom, no doubt rubbed off on him from time spent with a certain warrior mage. A smile crept over his face unbidden at that. One didn’t have to leap over walls to prove one’s virility when one had John Watson at home in one’s bed.

Of course, he wasn’t in his bed at that exact moment, nor able to join him on his current outing either. Sadly, John had sent a boy with a hastily-scribbled note explaining he was caught up in an unexpected disaster that afternoon. Apparently, a workshop fire had broken out, leaving every healer on their side of town swamped with casualties. Sherlock sighed. John worked too hard, but he’d never listen to any good advice about it.

Sherlock nodded carelessly at the servants who ushered him into the palace, and even more absent mindedly swept his cloak into one of their outstretched arms. John would so often tut at his disregard of the many staff members who swarmed around the nobility like ants at a picnic, but it merely hampered everyone’s work to waste time smiling and clucking at everyone. Sherlock held his tongue until the head butler swam into view.

“Ah, Liverton, where might I find the heads of state gathered this evening?”

“They would be in larger conservatory in the west wing, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Liverton. I know the way.”

The butler hesitated a moment. “Will Healer Watson-Holmes be joining your this evening as well, sir?”

“Sadly, most likely not.” Sherlock’s mouth made a small moue of displeasure without his expressed consent. “If he does manage to arrive later however, please have him shown in to join us.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” 

 

~ o ~

 

Sherlock let his feet take him down the right corridors without even conscious thought. He had hated the palace growing up - it was a place of rules, and scratchy collars, and ever-present eyes judging his mistakes at each turn. Summers spent barefoot running tame through his Grandmother’s half-wild estate had been heaven in comparison. Returning as an adult, he had made some peace with the royal residence though. Certainly having sex with John in fully a third of the rooms there (it had been an on-going project for a few months) had changed some of his ill will toward the great pile of stones. 

Sherlock reached the doors to the conservatory, and let the pleasant earthy scent wash over him as he entered. It was one of the few places in the palace that he had actually loved as a boy. Once part of the courtyard, it had been encased in glass walls on three sides to provide a warm, green space for the royal court to use throughout the year. He didn’t fault Loralee for making it the location for her twelfth birthday party at all. The murmur of voices led him down a gravel path toward the gathering, but he had to make his way through some particularly bushy date palms before he spied the open space. It had been transformed into a festive bower with glowing paper lanterns and fancy tables assembled for the party. The cheery decorations and bright outfits of the guests did much to counteract the gloom of the rain splashing against the glass walls beyond. One of the colourful dresses detached itself from the crowd, and moved his way.

“Uncle William, you made it.” A smile brightened Loralee’s face as one lone curl escaped from her carefully-coiffed hairdo to bounce against her cheek as she hurried to join him.

“But of course, my Lady.” Sherlock greeted her with his deepest bow, an obeisance that was usually reserved for one’s reigning monarch. Ironically it was not a gesture that he had actually ever favoured Mycroft with. 

Loralee returned his bow, and upped the ante, dipping into a curtsy that nearly had her forehead to the floor. The greeting would not have gone amiss to a visiting emperor.

They were both grinning as they straightened to face each other. It was one of those games of nobles that would have had John rolling his eyes had he been there.

“Princess Loralee, you look resplendent. How are you faring this fine evening?” Sherlock asked. Loralee was the oldest of his brothers’ children, and had been a favourite of his for many years. 

“Good . . .” Loralee’s smile faltered. 

“Poppet, what’s wrong?” 

“Oh, everything.” Loralee shrugged.

“Come, let’s go look at the koi pond.” Sherlock tucked her arm into his, and urged her back through the greenery with him. “I’m sure no one will miss you for a moment.”

“I doubt they’d miss me if I didn’t come back at all.” Loralee walked easily beside him, placing her sparkling low-heeled shoes carefully on the gravel path. Sherlock was surprised to note the top of her head was at his shoulder already. When had this little ball of fire turned into such a poised young woman? Surely it had happened over night. 

“Now, now - we need you present to blow out the candles on the cake before we can dive into it.”

Loralee laughed a bit, then grew pensive looking up at the raindrops sliding over the glass roof above. “I wanted an outdoor garden party, but it’s too cold at the end of October. I wish I had a summer birthday.” She sighed.

“Summer birthdays are for the frivolous, pet.” Sherlock flipped a negligent hand to punctuate his words. “I have a winter birthday myself, you know. We are the complicated ones, the children of the dark half of the year. We must walk the shadows where others fear to go.”

Loralee snorted a must unladylike sound. “Uncle John has a summer birthday. Shall I tell him you said he was frivolous?” She teased.

“You naughty beast, you’ll do nothing of the sort.” Sherlock squeezed her arm in mock rebuke.

“Is Uncle John coming today? I was hoping . . .”

“He’ll come if he can. He got tied up with an emergency at the sanctuary. Now how are you really, Poppet? Are the nasty trio still giving you trouble?”

King Mycroft had made certain that a number of young noble girls near Loralee’s age had been sent to court to keep her company in the palace’s schoolroom. He had not made certain that the three girls had been worth keeping company with. One of them was a natural bully, and the other two were too milquetoast to challenge her rule. This left Loralee to butt heads with her constantly.

“Margaret’s been pretending she can’t hear anything I say when no grown-ups are around.” Loralee screwed up her lips as if tasting something sour. “Today she’s acting sweet as pie. She’s such a two-faced harpy.”

“What does your father say about Margaret?” Sherlock asked. They had passed a stand of leafy ferns and emerged next to the stone-lined pond that housed the darting koi. Loralee detached herself to flop onto a nearby bench. She frowned down at the bright fish moving just under the surface of the water as she gathered her thoughts.

“Papa says I have to learn to get along with all sorts of people.” Loralee replied raising diamond-bright eyes to meet his.

“Your Papa doesn’t know everything.” Sherlock growled. “Here, I was going to give this to you later, but I think now’s the better time.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved the small package tied up with paper and ribbon that he dropped into her lap. "Happy Birthday, Poppet."

“OOooh.” With a grin, Loralee tore through the wrappings, and opened the small box to lift out the necklace curled within. The small wooden beads hung round its length were exquisitely polished, but very understated. “Thank you, Uncle Sherlock, what does it do?” she asked, holding it up to dangle from her long slender fingers.

“You are too clever by half, aren’t you?” Sherlock smiled at her. Inwardly he sighed. Loralee only called him ‘Sherlock’ now where no one else would hear them. Sometimes he wished she didn’t know how to be so careful, but such instinct was necessary at court. “It’s a charm of course. This particular necklace will make its wearer invisible.” 

“Truly invisible?” Loralee’s eye shot open wide as she considered the plain-looking bit of jewelry.

“Well, not completely, no, but it will render you unremarkable, and others will be unlikely to remember your passing. As long as you stay out of bright light, and refrain from making loud noise to draw attention to yourself, you can move nearly undetected. Be careful with it though, it will probably only last for about ten wearings before the magic dims.”

“I love it.” Loralee stood to throw her arms around his neck. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do with it.” He told her patting her back.

“Well, that could be nearly anything then.” She said pulling back with a cheeky grin across her face. 

“Minx.” Sherlock chided her giving her arm a final squeeze before releasing her. “How goes your magecraft lessons?”

Loralee was a budding Green Mage of no small talent. “Fairly well.” She drawled at him, securing the necklace in a pocket. “Why don’t I just show you instead of telling you though?”

Loralee glanced about, considering the foliage bordering the clearing. Evidently spying something she liked, she hiked up her skirts, and darted off the path into the brush. Sherlock caught up in time to watch her running a questioning hand over the narrow trunk of a tropical tree that dangled green fronds just over their heads. 

“You’ll do.” Loralee nodded at the plant. She glanced briefly toward Sherlock to make sure she had his full attention, touched tongue to lip, then closed her eyes to wrap both hands around the trunk and concentrate. A small glow emanated around the girl's fingers, and before Sherlock's eyes, buds nestled under the tree's fronds expanded, and ripened quickly into a full bunch of fat yellow bananas. 

Sherlock gave a low whistle of approval. “Brilliant. Are they good to eat?” 

“Of course.” Loralee nearly beamed. “Try one.”

Sherlock reached overhead and broke off one of the bananas, handing it to Loralee, then detached a second one for himself.

“Cheers.” Loralee said touching her fruit to his. 

“Cheers.” Sherlock echoed working a spot loose from the top of the banana to peel a strip down. Expecting a creamy white inside, Sherlock was surprised at the startling blue that greeted him instead. He glanced over to see Loralee biting into a banana of a similar odd color. 

“It tastes of blueberries.” Sherlock exclaimed after his first bite. “Marvelous. I can still taste the banana, but it’s mixed in. What other things have you combined?”

Loralee finished chewing before answering. “Some of my melon combinations worked, and raspberry apples were all right. This is the best of the lot though. Here I’ll take your peel when you’re done.

“Magnificent. I know what I want for my birthday.” Sherlock quipped before finishing off the rest of his snack, and handing her the outside of the banana.

“I’ll make up a whole basket of mixed fruits for you and Uncle John.” Loralee promised. 

“Shall I take one for him now?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course.” Loralee smiled as she watched Sherlock crack another off, and slip the fruit into an upper pocket. She stepped forward, and knelt down to press both their used peels over the tree’s roots. They darkened and shrank until they had disappeared into the soil around the plant. “It’s good to give some energy back to the tree.” Loralee explained, rising, and giving the tree a small pat before moving away. “I don’t like to tax the plants more than they can take.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly to study her. A true Green Mage didn’t just command the plants they touched, they shared . . . a relationship with them. “Ready to go back, and face the hyenas?” He asked the bright girl before him.

“Ready.” Loralee agreed, lifting her hem to make her way back to the gravel path.

“Good girl. Did cook make those potted meat sandwiches I like?” 

“She did, and fish cakes wrapped in bacon too.” Loralee said. 

“Excellent.” Sherlock rumbled, taking her arm to begin the stroll back. “Let’s go eat something bad for us then.”

 

~ o ~

 

Sherlock watched the crush of people swirling around the party from beneath an annoyingly spiky plant that kept catching at his hair. Loralee had returned to the knot of young people while Sherlock stayed to the edges to better scan the crowd. The youngest of Loralee’s cousins had been left in the nursery, but the older two, Fergus and Charles, had been escorted down by nannies to enjoy at least some of the party. It had been an absolute population explosion in the palace these last few years. 

Despite being Mycroft’s oldest, Loralee wasn’t next in line for the throne, being the child of his mistress. Her half brothers by Queen Norah, Fergus who was five, and George who was only one beat her out for that honor. Next on the roster were his Brother Sherringford’s brood – he had his son Charles, a boy of four, by his consort Millicent, and his daughter Victoria, who was just two, by his wife Lady Genevieve. The stork was fairly circling the palace these days as Genevieve was also expecting another come spring time, and Sherlock had of course thrown his own hat into the ring with Irene, so to speak, as well. He took in a deep breath that he blew slowly out. Sometimes it was a lot to take in.

Speak of the devil, Sherlock thought, as he was pleasantly surprised to find the rounded figure of Irene sat among a few matrons to the side of the festivities. Princess Irene looked near to popping, though she had at least another month before they’d welcome their own bundle of joy into the world. Poor creature, she looked most uncomfortable stuffed into her small garden chair. 

For just a moment, the memory of how she’d gotten into her swollen state clouded his vision. She’d had him blindfolded, and straining, lashed spread eagle to a wooden cross on the floor. He’d been covered in nothing but a fine sheen of sweat and stripes of various shades of red after several hours with the thin riding crop among other toys. He’d shivered at her slightest touch when she finally pulled the blindfold away to climb on top of him, mounting him to ride them both to a very loud completion. They didn’t often finish their sessions with something as mundane as intercourse, but Irene had decided she wanted to try for a child, and Sherlock had of course been willing to do his duty. That third time had been the ticket. Sherlock shook his head slightly to bring himself back to the party. His cock had twitched at his reminiscing, and he shifted himself quickly to maintain the line of his fitted trousers.

“Darling, how lovely to see you.” Irene purred as Sherlock crossed the space to greet her. 

"I'm surprised to find you here." He replied bending over to lay a kiss across her knuckles “I didn’t think you’d feel up to making this soiree, Milady.” He lingered longer than necessary holding her hand.

“I’ve moved my household to the palace. It seemed simple enough to make it downstairs. A diversion is . . . most welcome, and Loralee asked me to come.” Irene waved her free hand carelessly.

“Ah. I am sorry you've been forced to move already." Sherlock frowned in sympathy. He knew full well how tediously dull palace living could be. "However, I am pleased to see you. Your beautiful face is a beacon of sunshine brightening the dreariest of days.” Sherlock ran his thumb over the back of her caught hand before releasing it.

Irene looked mollified at his courtly words, even as she narrowed her lips. “Please, Prince William, you’ll give me a swelled head with such praise.” 

“Not you, Princess. You’re too well grounded.” Sherlock teased.

“Darling, I’m hurt.” Irene dropped her voice making Sherlock to lean in closer to catch her words. “You and John haven’t opened my present yet.” 

“How do you know that?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

A sharp blue gaze flicked over the length of him. “I know.” Irene smirked. “He couldn’t make it today?” She lifted both eyebrows in concern.

Sherlock gave his head the briefest of shakes “Working.” was all he said in reply.

Irene gave him a look that said “Poor baby” even if she didn’t speak the words aloud. 

Kate broke their reverie as she joined them with a cup of punch for Irene. She patted her love’s knee as she handed her the drink, sliding into the seat beside her. They all maintained the polite fiction in court that Kate was merely her lady-in-waiting, but the whole family knew the score.

“Prince William.” Kate nodded politely to Sherlock as she settled closer against Irene.

“Mistress Kate.” He nodded back equally politely before taking his leave of the couple. 

Sherlock made the obligatory rounds giving greetings and bows as needed. “Chuckie, I never seeee, you.” His mother, Queen Violet, scolded as he dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You still haven’t told me what you’re thinking of naming the baby. I can’t get a word out of Irene.” She complained.

“We believe in naming the baby after he comes. Irene thinks you need to look at a child first, and see what name will fit. No sense calling him ‘Orion’ in advance if he comes out looking like a ‘Xenophon.’” 

“Oh, you.” The Queen shooed him away in a fit of pique.

Sherlock was amused to find his middle older brother, Sherringford looking somewhat trapped between his lady wife and consort. Gone were his days of holding court with a flock of lovelies hanging off each arm. Two young wives had clipped his wandering wings back severely. Of course neither woman was exactly hard on the eyes. It was most likely the lack of change that irked his tomcat brother. 

Milly, his consort, was still a fetching, sweetly-curved woman. He’d gotten her up the duff a few years ago, and with the removal of enforced monogamy for the noble families, had married her right after his state wedding to Lady Genevieve. _She_ was a tall, sharp-featured beauty imported from Gallatia to smooth relations between their nations. Genevieve was as different from Milly as chalk from cheese, but a uniting thread of keeping Sherringford in line had made them fast allies. Sherlock suspected his brother would have preferred to spin Milly along with pretty tales that he’d marry her if _only_ he could. Imagine his surprise when Mycroft had all but ordered him to make Millicent and their new babe legal as soon as his royal duties were fulfilled with his Gallatian. Sherlock chuckled quietly at the thought. Sherringford looked to be deep in his cups already, taking another long pull from his goblet in hand. 

Sherlock bowed neatly to them all. “Ladies, brother dear. Always a pleasure.” 

“Prince William!” Milly embraced him with a quick hug, and Genevieve stepped in to kiss him on each cheek in the continental style. Sherringford eyed him sourly. 

“Good evening, brother. I see your lady wife is benched for the moment, but where has your little priest gotten off to?” Sherringford mock widened his eyes to glance about as if Sherlock had hidden John behind a flowering bush. He lost no opportunity to dig at Sherlock that John had been a noviate at a temple when they'd first met, and had abandoned his vows to ‘run away with him.’

Sherlock took a breath before replying. “John is assisting with an emergency – no doubt saving many lives with utter competence and care, Sherringford.”

“Pity. He’s amusing to talk to.” Sherringford shrugged.

At a light touch to his shoulder, Sherlock turned his head. Norah, the Queen of Brettona, stood beside him. “We’ll be sat for dinner soon. William, where’s John?”

“He was called away suddenly. An emergency in town.” Sherlock answered through a clenched jaw. Did no one at the palace actually wish to see him or was he merely a conveyance for John? “Where’s Mycroft?” He countered, searching over the crowd for the pompous figure of his brother striding about. 

“Called away on matters of state.” Norah sighed with a slight head shake. They shared a look then, the long-suffering spouses of the workaholic. Norah squeezed his arm before moving away to speak to another group. Sherlock watched her as she glided across the room to reach Loralee, and wrap an arm around the girl. Norah was not the stiff board he had originally thought her to be. It had surprised him to see how she had welcomed Loralee in when presented with her husband’s love child. Of course Loralee was about the age her own daughter would have been, Kaitlin, had she survived the Fever Plague of years ago. Still, that was no guarantee that Norah would have cared for Loralee as she did.

Loralee’s mother, Anthea, had decided to keep her distance from court, but the girl was able to spend a good portion of spring and summer at her mother’s country estate. His niece was like Proserpina, he mused— the flower Goddess who spent the fall and winter with Plutus, Lord of the Underworld, then rose anew at Spring Equinox to return to her mother, Ceres, the Grain Goddess. Sherlock snorted – the tale wasn’t a perfect match. Lord Plutus was Proserpina’s husband in the sacred tale, but it amused him to think of Mycroft as King of the Dead.

Any more musings were abruptly cut off as two heavy weights, like cannonballs hit the backs of his legs. “Oof.” He cried counterbalancing to stay upright. Two curly-headed moppets – one fair and one dark, had wrapped themselves around each of his thighs. “Prince Fergus, Prince Charles.” He smiled putting a hand to each of their tousled heads.

“Uncle Will’um!” they cried together as two women in servants’ gear hurried along behind them. 

“So sorry, your Grace, the wee scamps got away from us.” The heavier of the two women puffed, having reached them first. 

“Ah, Sadie” Sherlock smiled at the nursemaid. “There’s no harm done.”

“It’s time for them to be off to bed.” Sadie clucked. “The dears have had enough party for one day.” 

“Charles was throwing creampuffs.” Fergus remarked darkly, sending his cousin a thunderous look. 

“Fergie was TOO.” The younger boy wailed in his defense. 

“Yes, but he was probably smart enough to not get caught doing it.” Sherlock remarked to surprised looks on both the boys’ faces. “Come now, nursie says it’s time for bed.” When both boys groaned and wailed "nooooo", Sherlock held up a palm. “If you’ll both behave and leave when Sadie says so, I’ll give you each a horse ride to the door.”

The boys were good as gold then as Sherlock took turns ferrying each boy to the exit on his back through the trailing greenery. 

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Sadie bobbed a curtsy as she and the younger maid herded the boys into the corridor, taking their hands to lead them upstairs to the nursery.

“Of course.” Sherlock smiled at her.

“Uncle Will’um?” Fergus stood his ground ignoring his nurse’s best attempts to chivvy him along.

“Yes, my good man?” Sherlock dropped to his haunches to be at the blond boy’s level. 

“You said you would finish the pirate story from earlier. You promised.” Fergus stuck his lower lip out in the most endearing way.

“That I did, and I will, but that will have to wait for another night. A prince must learn to be patient.” Sherlock reached out to tap a long finger to the tip of the small boy’s nose.

Fergus looked as though he wanted to cry at that. “Here.” Sherlock fished the charmed banana from his inner pocket and handed it to the boy. “I’ve a special treat. You’ll need to share a bite with the rest though, mind.”

“It’s just a banana.” Charles said, having drifted forward to join them.

“What’s so special about it?” Fergus screwed up his face as he took it.

“Ah, my good lads, things are not always what they seem. You tell me later what was special about it. I’ll want a full report when I see you next.”

“All right.” The boys agreed.

“Excellent. Good night then, my fine fellows.” Sherlock leaned down to bestow a kiss to each of their brows. They both smelled sweetly of dried boy sweat, and some sticky pastries they had gotten into earlier.

Sherlock raised a hand as the boys waved good-bye, and watched as the nursemaids finally herded then away to their baths and waiting beds. None of the royal children in the nursery had shown any signs of magecraft yet, but they were still young, and it wasn’t uncommon for talents to make themselves known at later ages. 

The boys were lucky to have each other he thought as he made his way back to the gathering. Sherlock himself had been born later in life to his parents when his brothers were already half-grown. His had been a lonely childhood of a nursery filled with toys, but empty of other voices. He shook off his maudlin thoughts reminding himself that he had found plenty to do with the resources of the palace. He grabbed a glass of wine from the first passing servant at the party, and took a long swallow.

“Well, hello there, old man, how are things?” 

Sherlock turned to see none other than his errant cousin, Mister Thomas Dashwell, at his side, a half-emptied glass in his elegant hand as well. 

“If I’m old then you’re positively ancient. Who let you into the palace, you inveterate social climber?” Sherlock teased, taking another mouthful of his drink.

“Now, now, Loralee is my cousin too.” Thom smirked at him. It was a sticking point to those who cared about such things that the dowager queen’s youngest sister had run off, and married a commoner spawning a whole branch of the family sans any noble titles. 

“Thom, it’s fortunate I found you here, actually.” Sherlock said, slinging a companionable arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “I have a proposition for you.” 

“Uh oh. How painful is this going to be, and how much will it cost me?” Thom eyed him warily.

Sherlock waved his glass of wine around airily. “I’ll cover the expenses, and you might even enjoy yourself. It involves a trip to a sex club . . .”

Thom’s eyebrows rose as Sherlock continued, and a small gong sounded behind them signaling the seating for dinner. 

 

~ o ~

 

Sherlock was glad to see a light still burning in the window of their flat, and he hurried up the stairs hoping to catch John still awake. Sadly, his pleasure at finding his husband up dimmed as he took in the state of him. He could see John through the window, slumped at the kitchen table, staring dispiritedly into the half-full glass of scotch he held. Sherlock could see traces of soot across his tired face and over the hand wrapped around his glass. John startled as Sherlock pushed open the door, and he sat up, pushing the drink away, and shoving a hand through his disheveled hair to greet him. 

“Ah, love, good, you’re home. How . . . how was the party? I’m so sorry I had to miss.” John tried to smile, but it was a weak imitation of the usual expression that graced his face whenever Sherlock entered the room.

“Never mind that.” Sherlock had crossed the room in just a few strides to reach John’s side. He ran a soothing hand over John's scalp, settling his ruffled hair, and urging him to lean against him. This seemed to be a night for upset feelings, but John’s distress was something even more. “How are you? What happened?” It was evident what had happened, but Sherlock wanted to hear John speak the words that would release whatever plagued him.

John pressed his face against Sherlock’s belly, and shuddered before finally speaking. “Oh Gods. It went on for hours. They kept pulling people out of the building. The fire took down half of the workshop before people even knew what was going on. Thankfully the rain kept it from spreading, but it went up so fast inside. We only managed to save a few.” John paused to draw a deep breath, and raised hands to clutch at Sherlock’s clothes. "They brought me one of the injured fire-fighters, a water mage." Something like a squeak made its way from the back of John’s throat as he pressed his face tighter against Sherlock.

“Shhhh. It’s alright.” Sherlock smoothed circles along John’s shoulders distressed at finding him so obviously undone. This wasn’t like John.

“I knew you were at the palace, but the man had dark curls like yours, and for just a moment . . . I thought . . . I thought . . .” John gulped, and started anew. “He’d fallen off the roof, crushed vertebrae in his neck, and I didn’t get to him in time. We lost him. His family, they were waiting for news, and his wife. His wife looked so hopeful until I told her. She just collapsed on the ground, she cursed me . . .” John turned his face, and began to weep in earnest then.

Sherlock dropped to his knees, pulling John against him. He wound his arms around his husband's sturdy frame ignoring the smell of smoke that clung to his clothes and hair. “It isn’t your fault. You know it isn’t.” He murmured against John as he continued to shake. Sherlock had a passing respect for Thanatos, the reaper of souls. One couldn’t spend much time working as a private investigator, and not come up against death in all its many guises. There was accidental death, natural death, premeditated death, clever death, evil death, and death in the throes of passion – all parts of the puzzle of solving a crime. John, however, had a more complicated relationship with the Grim Reaper. As a healer, John worked in direct competition with Death. John struggled mightily to pull each soul out of his bony grip, saving his patient to walk another day on the green grass of Earth, to drink one more goblet of sweet wine, to attend yet another birthday party with those they loved.

Unbidden, Sherlock borrowed some of John’s healing talent, pulling the power into himself. He gently sent a “be well” into John’s body. After a moment, he felt the man release his tension with a sigh. 

“Thanks for that. I’m being a goose.” John breathed in deeply as he sat back up, wiping his eyes with the back of a knuckle before meeting Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Nonsense.” Sherlock chided him peering intently at his face. “You’ve simply been pushing yourself too much lately. Healer, heal thyself.” 

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” John agreed with a nod.

“I am. You’re taking the next two days off. You have the comp time coming, and I need your help for the Scarsi case.”

John chuckled weakly. “Oh? What shenanigans are we getting into now, good sir?”

Sherlock stood and extended a hand. “I’ll tell you later. Right now I want to get you into a hot bath.”

“I’ll get in if you know of a mad genius who might join me there.” John quirked a small smile at him.

“I have just your man, and if you’re good, he might tell you a bedtime story too.”

“I can’t ask for anything better than that.” John returned with a brighter grin. 

“Good, into the tub now.” 

Once they were in the bath, John nestled into Sherlock’s lap, and steaming water up to their chests, John sighed, and leaned back against him. “I couldn’t live without you, you know.” John said quietly, finding one of Sherlock's hands to thread their fingers together. “I don’t blame the water mage’s wife for being so angry with me at losing her husband.”

“You have me, love, and I couldn’t exist a single day without you.” Sherlock reassured him, dropping kisses along his temple. “You realize though she had no right to curse you like that. It was Death, itself, the woman was railing against, not you. You are the finest healer there is. If you couldn’t save the man, then it was simply his time to go.” 

The Fates were said to be three Goddesses who managed the thread of each mortal’s life. One sister wove each strand, one measured its length, and one snipped it short when its time was done. There was little anyone could do to tamper with the three sisters, though if anyone could persuade them to call off Thanatos for another day, it would be his clever John.

John shook his head. “You do me great credit, love, but you are right. There is only so much a Healer can do before Death will do his appointed job. We fool ourselves into thinking we are in charge of anything.” 

“You’re in charge of this.” Sherlock growled by his ear, rubbing the growing heat in his cock against John’s slippery warm backside. 

“Ah.” John rolled over in his arms to press his lips against Sherlock’s mouth. 

Water splashed out of the tub as the two grappled to pull each other tighter. They kissed until the water cooled, then pulled each other still wet to roll onto the bed. The sheets dried the water clinging to their bodies as the night accepted their impassioned cries. They fell asleep locked safe in each other’s arms drifting off into the waiting dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to envision the divine Thomas (Tom) Hiddleston playing the part of Mister Thomas Dashwell in this series. You might enjoy doing so as well!
> 
> \---
> 
> Just wanted to remind folks - I borrow heavily from existing mythology to create the Gods and customs that appear in this world, but I do alter and mix things up a bit as well. Hey, it's an AU - go crazy, right?


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to a brothel to play guardian angel is just how John and Sherlock spend a free evening you understand.

~ o ~ 

 

John tugged at his collar. Sherlock had dressed him in one of his fanciest outfits from the cupboard at 221B, and it wasn’t his most comfortable. At least John had put his foot down about wearing his priest’s robes for undercover work at a brothel. Although John spent most of his days in his healer’s gear, he was still an ordained priest, and it wasn’t a title he took lightly. Of course changing occupations hadn’t really changed John at all. Where once he healed the flock he ministered to, he now counseled the patients that came to his sanctuary. It wasn’t that different really. 

The night was exceedingly dark that evening. A low-lying cover of clouds swallowed up any light from the gibbous moon, and the streetlamps outside barely lit the city streets well enough for their carriage to travel by. Each time they passed a lamp, a shaft of light fell across Sherlock’s face briefly illuminating his eerie silver-blue eyes nearly glowing in the dark like a cat’s. He was dressed at the peak of elegance from his shined black boots to the ruffled fall of his neckcloth. It fair made John shiver when Sherlock tarted up like this, his fingers itching to unwrap him, but tonight was about a case, and John struggled to bring his mind back to the matter at hand. 

Sherlock was leaning in to give last minute details to the four others in the carriage with them – his cousin, Thomas Dashwell, a brawny fellow called Canterbury, who Sherlock had worked with before, and two women, Mary and Becky, that Sherlock had dredged from who-knows-where to accompany them. The ladies were dressed impeccably in fashionable low-cut evening gowns, but they had a lizard-like quality about the eyes that John wasn’t sure he liked. Still, they were going in to possibly hostile territory, and it was better to have such folks on their side than against. The blonde one, Mary, had a dragon tattoo twining around her left breast, and at the next flash of light through the window, John found himself leaning in, trying to see where the tail ended up. She caught him looking and sent him an amused wink. John smiled weakly and sat back, determined to follow the thread of Sherlock’s instructions more whole-heartedly.

“ . . . you’ll be creating the diversion. We aren’t completely sure what level of security might be set up, but we’ll have the reinforcements in place by midnight. John . . .” Sherlock directed his bright eyes John’s way. 

“Hmmmm?” John asked raising both eyebrows politely. He could tell he wasn’t fooling Sherlock that he’d been listening all along. 

“John,” Sherlock sighed. “We’ll need you at hand to act as healer. Dante may be under drugs or a charm or both, and I’ll need you to get him back to awareness. Things will be easier if we can get his cooperation.” 

“Yes, of course.” John agreed. 

Soon enough, the carriage reached the front doors of Carlo’s Dungeon, and they gathered their things to disembark, allowing the ladies to step down first. A frission of excitement ran along John’s spine. As much as he tutted over Sherlock’s bruises and scrapes after his evening escapades, he had missed joining him in the thrill of the chase. There was nothing like stepping into the unknown, a danger to conquer, and his detective at his side.

It was time to put their game faces into play. Sherlock had a broad mustache affixed to his face, and a fashionable bored pout to go with it. The women twined themselves around Canterbury and Thom leaving John to walk beside Sherlock. He let a bland, wide-eyed expression settle over his face as he took Sherlock’s arm. John knew he had a pleasant, everyman look about him, and he used this to his advantage. People often underestimated John's fighting skills until it was too late. It wasn’t often though that he got to play _arm candy_. His persona would be shocked at what they saw tonight though to be honest, he might actually be a bit taken aback for truth at some of it. He didn’t revel in the dark play as much as Sherlock did, but he was determined to grow more comfortable with it. 

A man clad all in black opened the door to usher them inside. Newly-installed gas lamps flickered in a foyer hung-round with velvet curtains. The bordello might be in a more disreputable part of town, but it was certainly doing well for itself. 

An ebony-haired woman of indeterminate age with dangling ear bobs, and a high-necked maroon dress so dark that it neared black met them at the inner door. “Good evening, gentlemen, ladies. How many I serve you this evening?”

“We have a private room reserved for Dunwoodie.” Sherlock drawled at her.

“Very good, sir.” The woman dipped her head with a small smile. 

Servants materialized from the shadows to take their cloaks and wraps. After the party had surrendered their outer wear, the woman bowed slightly, and motioned toward the door. “If you would please follow me this way . . .” 

When the hostess turned, John was surprised to find that most of her dress’s back had gone quite missing from the nape of her neck to the cleft of her arse, held together only by the grace of some lacing criss-crossed at the waist. Respectable from the front, and scandalous from the back – it was a perfect display of the unexpected. Sherlock shot him a look with one quirked eyebrow, and it took all John had not to giggle. They tamed their expressions as they followed her through the inner doors to the corridor beyond.

“Have you been to Carlo’s before?” their guide asked over her shoulder. 

“I’ve been a few times, but some of my compatriots are new.” Sherlock admitted, his voice pitched slightly higher than John was used to. 

The woman led them to a pair of double doors thrown wide to a noisy room within. She gestured toward the small crowd gathered in what looked to be a bar. “This is our main lounge area. If you wish to come here later tonight, or at another visit, you are more than welcome.”

John glanced in to see a few scantily dressed women twirling themselves around poles set floor to ceiling in time to a drummer banging in the corner. The customers were a mix of the well-heeled and the more middle-class, looking well amused between the drinks in hand, and the fancy lads and lasses prancing about. John caught a glimpse of a young woman clad in little more than feathers planting herself in the lap of a portly fellow before their hostess was moving them down the hallway again. 

“You’ll be in the smaller party room, this evening.” The woman led them through a door to another corridor, this one nearly silent as the door closed behind them. 

She ushered them into a room done round with glowing strings of fairy lights and black fabric-covered walls. “My name is Miss Savoy. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your time with us more enjoyable.” She purred. “This is Yolanda.” She placed a hand to the shoulder of a young woman who had appeared at her side. “Yolanda will be serving you tonight, and can let me know if you need anything special.” 

The hostess accepted their thanks, then smoothly exited, leaving them at the hands of the younger woman to seat themselves on the padded chairs and chaise lounges scattered about the room. John found himself on a settee with Sherlock to one side, and Thom on a chair at his other.

“What refreshments can I bring you this evening?” Yolanda asked smiling round at them. 

“Bring us two bottles of your finest claret and whatever nibbles are the usual.” Sherlock ordered with a careless wave of his hand. 

“Right away, sir.” Yolanda bowed away as a woman with a lute moved in from a side door. She settled at a chair by the wall and with began strumming a slow, sultry tune. 

“I say, this is nicer than your usual haunts, eh, old bean.” Sherlock removed his gloves and leaned over John to smack them upon Thom’s raised knee crossed over his other leg. 

“Indeed, Dunwoodie.” The man twinkled back at him. “This is quite the posh digs. I thank you for the invitation, good sir.” Thom bowed his head slightly.

“I agree it does look lovely,” Mary batted her eyelashes at the assembled company “but I DO hope the entertainment lives up to its hype.” Gone was the sharpness from her face to be replaced by a saucy moue. 

“You jaded thing.” Becky, the other woman, giggled. “I’m not sure what could possibly be new for you.” 

“Never fear, my dear perverts,” Sherlock drawled, allaying whatever cutting remark might have been on Mary’s tongue. “This establishment comes with the highest recommendations.” Sherlock sniffed in an exaggerated way. If John wasn’t used to seeing his love roll in covered in rags and filth as often as expensive suits, he’d have believed this image of the bored aristocrat searching thrills to alleviate the daily tedium. 

As if reading his mind, Sherlock turned and scooped up John’s hand to drop a kiss to the back of it. “Ah pet, I’m so glad you were free to join us this evening as well.” His liquid blue eyes fairly shot sparks from under his eyebrows. 

“Of course, sugar lump. I wouldn’t miss it.” John quipped, not missing a chance to play the silly hanger-on. 

Sherlock gave his hand a final squeeze, releasing it as Yolanda returned with several serving lads in tow bearing wine in buckets of ice, and platters of hors d'oeuvres that they set upon the low tables in the room.

After glasses of wine were poured and distributed around, a trio of performers glided in. Two masked women in black escorted a pale woman who walked between them, her head bent and hands clasped before her. They were a study in contrasts, the two dark ones clothed head to toe in tight black fabric, and heeled boots, their hair pulled sleekly back, while the middle woman walked barefoot with her long fair hair loose, and a sheer white robe that billowed with each step. 

One of the dark women marched over to a raised dais across the room where a wide wooden bench stood and fell into a parade rest. The other escorted the woman in white to stand directly before the company, pulling her captive in front of her. She reached around the woman, pinning her about the waist with one arm, while the other hand swept over her front, moving to rub and pluck at the pink nipples just visible through the thin pale fabric. The captive made no effort to hide her arousal, letting her head fall back to the shoulder of her tormentor as she groaned. They made such a pretty picture, the dark arms clasped over the expanse of white, holding up the pale woman as she sagged, displayed before them like some virgin sacrifice. The guard reached up to unhook a row of clasps holding her victim's thin garment closed. Dark arms parted the sides of the white robe, as the woman in black raked her nails down the woman's sides, pushing the fabric away to pool at their feet. The pale woman stood bare, head lowered, quivering, her rosy-tipped breasts and flushed skin completely exposed for their viewing pleasure. 

John sucked in a breath. He couldn't have looked away if his life had depended on it. 

The figure at the dais stepped down then, and together the two masked guards grasped the nude woman’s upper arms, their fingers digging slightly into her creamy white flesh as they urged her along. They guided her up to the dais, and over the bench to lie down. Stretching out her arms and legs, they wrapping restraints to fasten each limb securely down. The guards produced a swathe of black velvet to cover the captive’s eyes, and a set of long, thin switches to begin the stage show. They circled their victim, taking turns to lay swipes over her pale flesh, varying their strikes to best elicit gasps or groans. 

John figured the switches weren’t inflicting too much pain at this point, though that could certainly change with pressure and frequency. When John realized he was holding a glass of wine frozen in mid-air, he quickly raised it to take a sip. John risked a glance over the rest of the party. With the exception of Canterbury, the others were chatting quietly or projecting a complete sangfroid with the whole affair. The burly man though shifted in his seat looking distinctly uncomfortable. He picked up a nearby platter of food to offer to Becky and Mary beside him. 

“Prawn?” he croaked. 

“Ooh, goat cheese.” Becky cooed, leaning in to grab a bit of food off the tray. 

Mary reached over to select a prawn, “Ta.” she said, continuing to watch the performance, though John noticed that her eyes scanned the whole room as much as the small stage. Definitely some advanced training with that one, John thought, considering her more closely. 

When her eyes slid his way, John quickly dropped his gaze toward the nearest plate of food pretending to study it instead. He picked up a bit of melon and prosciutto before nudged the plate toward Thom. The man winked, and reached for a tidbit of his own. Sherlock had his eyes glued to the stage, but he moved his closest hand to trail one elegant finger up John’s thigh. John shivered, and popped his melon into his mouth. He definitely didn’t need to fake his responses to appear aroused on this particular outing. 

Noise at the door yielded a handful of young men and women clad prettily in filmy, pastel outfits who spilled into the room. Yolanda and a whip-thin boy in naught but a collar and puffy harem trousers carried in plates of sweets that they offered around. The others insinuated themselves into the company, asking if anyone cared for a massage. John hoped the pretty girl who draped herself behind him, and set to rubbing his shoulders was older than she looked. He could tell the intended appearance of the workers was one of innocence, but the slyness in their faces belied that particular state. 

Sherlock and Mary simply waved their waifs off, but Becky allowed a young man to slide onto the floor before her, and remove her shoes to rub at her feet, while two other girls set to massaging the shoulders of Dashwell, and Canterbury respectively.

“Sorry, luv, but I’d prefer that one.” Thom said tipping his chin toward the boy in harem pants. The girl bowed and moved off, as the young man set down his plate to take her place. “Mmmm, yes, much better.” Thom said rolling his head side to side. “Your hands are quite strong, my dear.” 

“Thank you, sir.” The boy simpered, tucking his face down as if embarrassed at the attention.

John glanced back to the stage to see that the dark-suited women had finished with their switching, and moved on to a game involving a lit black candle. One guard knelt to hold the captive's arms more firmly down, while the other tilted the taper to drip molten liquid on the white skin below. The bound woman jerked and cried out in anguish. She tried to twist out of the way in earnest, but could go nowhere caught caught quite fast between the ropes and her tormentors. The bits of wax cooled quickly once they landed, forming a spatter pattern of dark streaks and reddened skin across the woman’s gloriously pale body. 

It was an arresting image, but John couldn’t help wincing in sympathy. He was ruminating on what sort of health care the brothel offered when his masseuse pulled him from his thoughts. John jumped as she squeezing his shoulders, and stuck her tongue in his ear at the same time. “We might go to a private room later, sir, if you wish?” She crooned.

John cleared his throat. “No, sorry no. Perhaps another time.” John demurred, realizing he would need to stop woolgathering if he wished to keep his wits about him tonight.

“YES, yes, this is all well and good,” Sherlock drawled in a bored fashion throwing a sweeping arm out to comment on the whole room. “but we were promised something new. I will be most dissatisfied if this is what Carlo considers new.” He whinged.

“Of course, sir.” Yolanda appeared as this elbow. “This is merely the appetizer, we have other enjoyments planned for the evening.” At the clap of her hands, the music stopped, and the women on the stage untied their victim and helped her out a side door. 

“Enough of you too.” Sherlock waved the woman away from John’s back, and with a slight pout, she bobbed and slid away. 

The lute player resumed her playing with slightly more enthusiasm, as another set of performers arrived. John watched, fascinated as a man dressed in the deepest violet hung round with various whips curled at his belt, led two people in chains into the room. His two prisoners were blindfolded, and dressed, if you could call it that, in white fabric strips that covered their bits, handcuffs, and leather collars attached to leashes in their leader’s gloved hand. The first captive was attractive enough, a lushly-curved woman with long red hair, but it was the other, a dusky young man, with a bewitching head of brown curls, and the prettiest pout of a mouth beneath his blindfold that made John sit up and take note. Surely this was Dante Scarsi, the boy they sought. John cut his eyes to Sherlock, but he had barely moved since the newcomers joined them. Still, John could sense a coiled energy building about the man, and he felt even more certain that this was their target. Sherlock nodded slightly, and John exhaled, forcing himself to settle back to watch the show.

The man in violet led his captives up the steps and onto the stage. Two of the pastel-covered fancy women leapt up to assist him. They chivvied the ginger woman into place first, stretching her arms overhead as her hand cuffs were attached to a hook above. John watched Dante carefully as he waited. He stood passively to the side until he was pulled not ungently forward by his collar, and latched in place as well. Dante didn’t look superficially hurt, but it was difficult to get any kind of read on him this far away and the fabric covering half his face.

Once both slaves were situated, their bodies stretched taut into long lines with their hand bound above them, the helpers produced small knives to cut away their scant strips of clothing leaving them fully nude. Dante was a good-looking lad, that was certainly true. His tan limbs were well-made, with a hint of ropy muscles across his lean form, and only the merest dusting of dark hair across his body, and around his flushed cock. The woman bound beside him was more generously curved, with freckles scattered over her milky white skin, the ginger hair of her pubic mound matching the sweep of flame at her head. John struggled to keep a clear head, but it was a difficult thing. Again, the performers made a pretty contrast of light and dark presented side by side. 

Heads turned when the man in violet stepped forward and went to work. He uncoiled a large whip from his belt, his arm moving in an arc, as he swung it to a sudden crack. The music stopped, and all eyes fastened to the movement of the weapon as he spun it out like a cobra entrancing its prey with its hypnotic sway. 

The man let the whip unspool to snap to each side of the stage without touching either of the bound specimens on display. Both of them twitched at the sound despite their obvious effort to hold still. The master curled the whip in his hand and stepped closer to stroke its leather edge lightly up and down across each of the prisoners in turn. The ginger woman bit her lip, and Dante shuddered. Moving away again, the master swung the whip in earnest, letting it uncoil with a loud snap to lay the first kiss across the red-haired woman's back. As she clenched crying out, he turned and struck Dante next. The boy tensed, grunting at the pain. It was obvious the master had skill, making more noise than damage, barely touching skin with each of lash of the whip’s end. Still, the slaves cried out, and writhed each time the whip made a solid connection.

John exhaled with the first blow, and he struggled to pull in a solid breath after that. It was hypnotic watching the rise and fall of the lash, and the twisting of the captives with each strike. Finally after an eternity or a few minutes - John wasn't sure which, the whip wielder dropped his arm, and with a gesture, called the pastel-clad women forward. They arrived with jars of ointment to run oiled hands over the bound captives, soothing and enflaming them. They pulled moans from the slaves as clever fingers brushed over their nipples, traced curves, and teased at their sex. Dante’s cock had risen to half mast, while the woman next to him had flushed a delightful rose over her pale skin. 

At a nod from the master, the women scattered, giving him room to work. He pulled off each of his thick leather gloves to tuck into his belt, and raised bare hands to brush his fingers lightly over his captives. The captives shivered at his gentle touch, and moaned louder than they had at the oiled fingers. Inexplicably, an electric feeling rose in the room like the banked energy of a storm about to break. John felt the small hairs rise off the back of his neck as the man raised his hand a few inches away from Dante’s side, and a small burst of light formed to dance over his fingertips. The sparks grew until they suddenly jumped from the master's hand to crackle in a small blue arc against Dante’s skin. Dante’s whole body went rigid, his mouth caught in a soundless rictus of shock. He slumped with a groan against his bonds as the strange light finally winked out. 

An energy mage. Here in this stupid brothel. John jerked his head toward Sherlock only to find him as entranced as he had been, eyes glazed, and mouth slightly parted. At John’s movement, he seemed to collect himself, shaking his head slightly to bring his attention back into focus. 

“STOP.” Sherlock rang out imperiously, snapping his fingers toward Dante. “That one. . . what’s his name? ” He pointed at the boy still sagged in his bindings. “My partner and I will play with that one in a private room. Have him delivered there before he’s ruined for the night.”

Yolanda was at his side again. “Of course, sir. That’s Danny, but don’t worry, he has loads of energy, believe me, he’ll last several more rounds. And for the rest of your party . . .” She raised her eyebrows as she glanced around at the others sat in various degrees of lust and feigned nonchalance. 

“They can make their own arrangements.” Sherlock declared, rising to wave John along with him. “Come, pet, the game awaits.”

 

~ o ~ 

 

“I want the Arabian Nights room.” Sherlock archly informed the girl who led them up the stairs to the private chambers. 

“Certainly, sir.” She ushered them into a room filled with cushions, and a round bed surrounded by fabric hanging from the ceiling. “Your slave will be brought to you in just a few minutes.” She bowed, and closed the door behind her leaving them to their own devices. 

“Hmmm. Well, this isn’t as big as your room at the palace,” John said looking around at all the frippery, “but it certainly gives its collection of cushions a run for the money.” He flipped a number of small sequined pillows off the velvet-covered divan, clearing enough space to seat himself.

“I didn't chose the room for the decor." Sherlock said walking around the perimeter to inspect the one barred window set high in the wall. “It's the closest to the stairs." He reached up to tug sharply at the bars, finally giving it up as a bad job. "We’ll want to make a quick exit as soon as Dante is fit to travel. Things are about to get a little . . . interesting here.”

“He looks drugged – at the very least.” John offered.

“Most certainly.” Sherlock agreed stalking back to the center of the room. “His reaction time is just a beat too slow. As long as he’s on his feet though, and we can convince him to come with us, we’ll be able to get out of here in good time.

“How much convincing do you think he’ll need?” John asked. 

Whatever Sherlock had in reply was left on his tongue as the door knob turned, and Dante Scarsi backed into the room carrying a tray with a pitcher and several glasses. The youth had obviously been hastily washed, and redressed since they'd last seen him. He now wore an ivory waistcoat and loose trousers tied at the ankle that set off his tawny colouring beautifully. Long slits cut into the fabric of his costume gaped and shifted as he turned to close the door, giving even more glimpses of his smooth caramel-colored skin beneath. As he turned to face them, they got their first close look at him. His hair hung in a dark cloud to frame a face that was stunningly lovely. Huge brown eyes under long fringed eyelashes that wouldn’t have gone amiss on a girl dropped demurely to look at the floor as he walked to set his tray on a small table. He moved toward the divan, sinking to his knees to rest before John.

“Good evening, my name is Danny." He kept his head lowered as a shy hand fluttered to land just above John's knee. "How may I best serve you this evening, masters?” 

John popped to his feet almost instantly. “You can serve us by sitting down for a moment.” He waved Dante toward the place he'd just vacated on the divan. 

“Of course.” The boy agreed, rising to take John’s seat, putting his knees demurely together as he lowered himself to the furniture. “Do you need me to service you from here?” The look he flashed from under his lashes was pure heat. 

John felt the words to answer him tangling in his throat. “Errrm . . .” He gargled helplessly.

“Well, you certainly earn your keep here, don’t you?” Sherlock smoothly inserted himself between John and the boy. “You’ve got this ingénue act down to a science, hmmmm?”

“Am I not pleasing to you, sirs?” Melting dark eyes looked beseechingly at Sherlock. “Is there something I can do to make things right?” Dante turned his long face toward John, his lower lip pushed out, trembling in his obvious distress.

“It would please your mother if you'd let her know where you are, Dante.” Sherlock lowered a locket on a chain he had pulled from a pocket, and swung it gently before the boy's eyes. “She’s fairly sick with worry for you.” 

“You know my mother?” The boy’s whole demeanor shifted instantly to the wary teen that he actually was as he caught the necklace to examine it. 

“We’ve met.” Sherlock informed him crisply. “She asked us to find you. Return you home.” 

“Are you the police?” Dante asked, clutching the obviously-familiar bit of jewelry in his fist.

“No. Private investigator.” Sherlock answered simply.

“We’re friends.” John added.”Your family is desperate to have you back.” 

“I’m not going back there.” Dante ground out jumping to his feet only to lose his balance, and stumble.

John reached out, catching Dante’s shoulder to steady him. “Whoa, careful there, son. Did you eat anything today?” All discomfort that John may have felt at the boy’s overwhelming allure dissolved as the healer stepped in. He urged Dante back to sitting, kneeling beside him to peer at his pupils, and put a hand to his wrist to check his pulse. 

“I had some cakes earlier.” Dante admitted distractedly. “Is he a healer?” He cut sullen eyes toward Sherlock.

“You’re in luck, he’s one of the best in Delphium,” Sherlock assured him, “and once John says you’re ready to travel, we need to get you out of here with some haste.”

“I told you I’m not going back there.” Dante insisted mulishly.

“And what, pray tell, is so terrible about a bed and three square meals a day with people who love you, eh?” John asked. 

“They don’t love me!” Dante cried out “My father . . .” 

“Cried like a baby when he begged me to find you.” Sherlock cut in. 

“You spoke to my father?” Dante turned to peer at Sherlock.

“I did.” Sherlock waited patiently.

“He wanted me engaged to his friend’s daughter. When I told him I couldn’t do it . . . and why, he said I was better off dead than living as a . . . _faggot._ ” Dante ground out. 

“Dante, I won’t promise you that things will be easy with your father when you return, but he’s at least willing to try.” Sherlock spread his fingers in emphasis. "It's the best offer you're likely to get today." His eyes flicked to the door, obviously ready to be moving on.

“Maybe I don’t want to go back to hauling boxes, and boiling vats of rotini every day.” Dante huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe I LIKE it here.” 

“How much are you getting paid?” Sherlock asked him.

At Dante’s hesitation, Sherlock pressed. “Daily, how much are you making working here?”

“Well,” Dante thought. “I’m still in training phase, I’m not getting paid anything yet, but the guests give me gifts, and after my trial period is over . . .”

“Dante, think.” John laid a gentle hand on his knee. “After your trial period is over, you’ll owe the house money for your room and board, and then money for the drugs you’re getting hooked on. It’s an ongoing cycle that you will never get on top of if you stay working here.”

Dante’s anger evaporated as tears gathered in his eyes. “You don’t understand, I can’t go back after what I’ve done here . . .” 

“Dante, no one is perfect," Sherlock cut in, "but this is your opportunity to start again. You don’t have to go back to working for your father if you don’t want to.” Sherlock reached into his pocket and returned with a business card that he extended toward Dante between two fingers. "I know many people in the city. If you want an apprenticeship in any number of professions, I could arrange it. Think about it.”

Dante took the card, and looked at it in wonder, sniffling slightly as he tucked it inside his meager clothes.

“Son, can I do a healing scan on you?" John asked kindly. "I promise it won’t hurt.” 

At Dante’s nod, John stood, and placed a hand to either side of Dante’s skull. A small glow grew under his hands as he slipped into a light trance to check Dante’s vitals. John eased into the working of the boy’s body, aligning himself with the hum of his life force. His lungs were mostly clear, and his heart pumping steadily – all good. His energies were a little off, and something nasty was chasing its way through his bloodstream. Opiates most likely John decided. He could have pursued things further, but he knew from experience that he could lose track of time in his scans if he wasn’t careful. He pulled back up to normal consciousness.

“How is he?” Sherlock asked as soon as John opened his eyes and stepped back.

“He’s a little dehydrated, and could do with some proper food.” John said quirking up one side of his mouth. “Sherlock, would you mind?” John nodded to the tray on the table. 

“Hmmm? Oh, right.” Sherlock stepped over to the pitcher and poured a glass of water that he promptly handed to John.

“Ta.” John smiled as he took it. “He probably had a little poppy smoke today.” John observed passing the glass to Dante. “Anything else you took I should know about, young man?”

Dante accepted the glass gratefully, and gulped half of it down. “Jenna had a pack of seeds earlier, and I ate some. I’m not sure what they were.” He admitted colouring slightly. 

“Probably a mild hallucinogenic.” John observed. “That’s it? No powders? Nothing injected?”

“NO.” Dante insisted. “I don’t do that hard stuff.” 

“Good man.” John said patting him on the shoulder. 

“Dante you need to make a decision, stay or go?” Sherlock moved closer to the door, obviously listening.

“Why are you doing this?” Dante asked with narrowed eyes, setting the empty glass down. “My father doesn’t have a lot of money to pay anyone.”

“Let’s just say I was in your shoes once. I understand the importance of second chances.” Sherlock moved to stand before the boy. “Come now, you can decided the rest of your life later.” He snapped out, irritated, and extended a hand to Dante. “At this particular moment however, this entire brothel is about to be turned inside out with a raid. It would be best if we good people were elsewhere. . . soon.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Dante asked with a grin, taking Sherlock’s hand, and allowing himself to be pulled upright.

“Because I promised to return you to your mother, not tip you out in the streets of Delphium to roll willy nilly into another den of inequity.” Sherlock said gruffly, his eyebrows pulling together. “I need your word. We get you out of here, and you return home. What you do after that is your own business.” 

“All right,” Dante agreed slipping his mother’s necklace over his head, “but you need to keep an eye out for Ollie, he’s the big one.”

A large crash and the sound of someone yelling farther inside the building had them all jumping where they stood.

“Gentlemen, I do believe that is our cue to depart.” Sherlock smiled tightly, as he moved to open the door. He cracked it just enough to stick his head out, peering both ways before pulling it wide. “Hurry, while the coast is still clear.”

Sherlock ushered them out into the hall going first with Dante safely between him and John. They were halfway down the stairs when a woman in a sheep costume brushed rudely by to stomp past them down steps, disappearing into the corridor beyond.

“Well.” John said.

“We get all kinds here.” Dante shrugged, and the two of them sniggered. 

“Shhhh. Focus.” Sherlock whispered, glaring at them both. “We aren’t out of the woods yet.” 

Sherlock halted at the bottom of the stairs, and after a brief consideration, led them quickly to the left. He seemed confident of his route, and John didn’t question it, but worryingly, they appeared to be moving closer to the very loud noises of a disagreement in progress instead of away. It looked as if their escape plan would take them right by the room where they had first met Dante where not uncoincidentally, an imminent bar brawl seemed to be erupting. 

Over the din of several angry voices babbling at once, the imperious tones of an irate Thomas Dashwell cut through it all. “I don’t care what kind of place you run, this lazy cow just spilled wine all over my best suit, and I want reparations.” 

Passing the half-open door, John managed to catch a glimpse of Dashwell and Canterbury on their feet surrounded by what looked like half the brothel before they had hurried past and made their way to another hallway, this one leading toward the back of the building. The distinctive sounds of a tray and several items of glass smashing to the floor behind them had them picking up the pace.

Their luck held until they turned the corner, nearly colliding with the very large bald man, with a black tattoo of some foreign letters covering the side of his neck. “Ere now, what’s all this? Where do you blokes think you’re going?” He demanded, shifting his stance to completely block the hallway with his impressive bulk. He wasn’t as tall as Sherlock, but he seemed to be at least three times his size in girth. 

Sherlock’s whole demeanor shifted in barely a blink. He dropped his shoulders to fold in on himself as a pleasant, vacant expression stole over his face. “Ah my good man, if you could please point us to the nearest exit, we’d be most obliged. This boy is very ill. We’re taking him to a Healers' Sanctuary.”

The big man peered around Sherlock to glare at Dante who had doubled over to clutch at his stomach, putting any student who hoped to avoid classes to shame with a well-timed, pitiful moan. 

“We need to see the head man about this. No one leaves without his permission. You’ll have to come with me.” The man said crinkling up his brow.

“Oh that won’t be necessary.” Sherlock assured him. “My colleague here is a healer, and has his credentials in hand, John?” 

John stepped forward to lay a hand to the bruiser’s thick forearm. “Yes, it’s all quite fine.” He smiled, and pushed a sleep trance into the man as quickly as he could. The bouncer’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor, falling into a loud snore without another word. 

“Here, help me roll him on his side.” John said as Sherlock made to step over him. 

“Oh really, John. Must we?” Sherlock huffed. 

“I want to make sure he’s breathing all right.” John insisted. “Come on, just a quick shove.”

With an irritated grunt Sherlock bent down to work his hands under the man. Dante joined him, and between the three of them, they just managed to heave the dead weight of the prodigious man to tip him to his side. His snores changed to a more regular deep breathing. 

“Yes, that’s better.” John said stepping back, rubbing his hands together.

“Come on the kitchen’s this way, correct, Dante?” Sherlock asked him pointing to the swinging door at the end of the corridor.

Dante nodded, and might have spoken, but at that moment a huge clatter sounded from inside the room in question.

“Damn, the police are early.” Sherlock screwed up his face in frustration. “Quick, we’ll have to go this way instead.” 

Sherlock hurried them down the hall, wrenching open a door to reveal a stairway leading down to the stygian depths of the cellar. Dante looked as though he might balk, but John pushed the boy in ahead of him, and they all crowded onto the narrow landing and first steps, pulling the door closed behind just in time. They held their breath as several pairs of footsteps thundering past them down the hallway. John groped around the shelf just inside the door until his hand connected with the small lantern and tinderbox stored there. After a moment of fumbling, he managed to get the wick burning. He handed the lantern to Dante who passed it in turn to Sherlock. 

“How are we going to get out this way?” Dante asked, his big eyes gone luminous in the lamplight. His resemblance to a cherub fallen to earth increased in the flattering half-light. 

“The coal.” Sherlock clipped out briefly as he started down the stairs. His long legs made short work of the narrow stairway, and he stepped briskly onto the packed earth floor, holding the lamp high to peer into the gloom around. That particular smell of underground spaces, a chill, damp rot entered John’s nose as he and Dante hurried along to keep up with the beacon of light swinging wildly in Sherlock's hand.

The light fell over a stack of boxes, some wooden racks holding bottles of wine, and a broken piece of furniture that looked like nothing so much as an ancient torture device for stretching convicts to death. John shivered, and felt absurdly cheered when he felt the boy behind him crowding in, curling both his hands around his left bicep.

“I don’t like the dark.” Dante admitted bashfully.

“There, there, son, nothing to worry about.” John intoned paternally, feeling a bit of a sham to be comforting the youth when the willies were crawling up his own spine. Dante was shivering, and probably from the temperature as much as any nerves John thought. He had to admit it was cold in the down below. For a moment he fancied that they had left the sunlit lands to travel into the frozen hells of the underworld itself. He shook off the maudlin thought and reminded himself they were merely in a town house’s cluttered cellar. Gently detaching Dante’s hands, John removed his jacket, and passed it to the youth.

“Thank you, sir.” Dante said, taking the coat and shrugging into it. It was a bit wide on him, and he looked to be playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. It made him seem more like a boy, and less like a sex god, something that John was rather grateful for.

“There's a breeze this way, come on.” Sherlock called over his shoulder, and they hurried to follow his lead as he strode on ahead.

They turned a corner, and came upon a demon straight from the pits of hell, its twisted face hideous in the thin light of the lamp. Dante grabbed John’s shirt, and shrieked a high-pitched cry that merged with the deeper one that had ripped itself from John’s throat. Even Sherlock seemed to have temporarily lost his breath, but he recovered first to chuckle at them all. 

“It’s just a painting.” Sherlock explained as the realization washed over John that it was indeed merely a badly-done portrait of an old man relegated to the depths of the basement rather than given to the junkman as it surely should have been. 

“Ugh, who would paint such a thing?” Dante spat out.

“And who would keep it around?” John added, embarrassed at his earlier outburst.

“There's no accounting for bad taste . . . or sentiment.” Sherlock shrugged. “Come, I think the coal chute is this way.”

“Coal chute?” Dante was still puzzling over the words as they came upon the contraption itself, a small ramp that led from a flap set high in the wall to the bin of coal below. 

“Will we fit?” John asked peering up at the thin strip of light that leaked in around the small door overhead. 

“We all managed to be born once, surely this will be no more of a challenge.” Sherlock quipped setting down the lantern to strip off his own jacket. 

It wasn’t easy, but they managed to climb up and wriggle their way out of the narrow hatch one by one. Sherlock went first, laying his jacket down over the lip of the opening with Dante scrambling up behind him. John blew out the lantern, and gratefully left the stuffy fug of the cellar behind as his husband pulled him into the fresher air outside. Thankfully the corner of the building where they had emerged was relatively quiet, but they could see the commotion farther down the lane where police, prostitutes, and clients in various states of dress and undress swarmed in angry chaos as the raid on the house continued. 

“This way.” Sherlock nudged them, shrugging into his dirty coat, as he urged them down the alley. They followed several turns only Sherlock seemed to know before emerging onto a quiet street where a black coach and four awaited them. The servants tending the carriage looked completely nonplussed to open the door for three men filthy enough to be tall chimney sweeps.

“Evening, sirs.” The footman bowed them in.

“Thank you, Rhodes,” Sherlock nodded as they climbed in to collapse on the welcome luxury of the padded benches within.

“Well, that's this suit ruined.” Sherlock sighed looking down at his grimy clothes.

“I’m happy enough to be shot of this one.” John chuckled brushing ineffectively at his dirty trousers. “I always felt like an overdone tea cozy in this outfit.” 

“You look gorgeous in anything you wear, love.” Sherlock grinned, his teeth surprisingly bright in his black-smudged face. He leaned in to give John a quick, hard peck on the mouth. 

“You.” Dante blurted out from where he curled on the seat opposite.

“Sorry?” John asked him as the coach jostled, and the horses started off. 

“You.” Dante repeated. “I want to apprentice with you. I want to be an investigator too.” Despite being covered in soot, and draped with John’s too-large jacket, Dante was still a breath-takingly beautiful young man, his dark curls swirled almost artfully about his head. 

Sherlock’s tone was kind as he leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Dante. I’m not taking any apprentices at the moment. That doesn’t mean you can’t help me in the future with something, but I think we need to find you some steady work right now.” Sherlock reached over and patted his knee. “Think it over, and let me know if you come up with something you like better than restaurant work . . . that isn’t being a detective.” He added. 

Dante huffed out a breath of air, but sat back with a resigned slump. “All right.” He agreed, and pulled his borrowed jacket closer around him. 

John shrugged his right shoulder back a few times. He’d managed to pull something during their grand adventure with the coal chute, but he was certain Sherlock could help him with it later. Of course his husband, being the observant man he was, reached over and massaged the sore muscle without being asked. 

“What about Thom, and the others?” John asked rolling his head down as clever fingers worked wonders soothing the knot away.

“Don’t worry, _the others_ can handle themselves, and my brother will make sure Thom gets away without a fine, or any mention in the papers.” Sherlock assured him. 

“That’s a relief. I’d hate to have Thom on our bad side.” 

“I’ve done worse to him over the years.” Sherlock’s voice held more than a hint of amusement as he gave John's shoulder a final squeeze.

“You’re a menace.” John chuckled. 

“You love me for it.” Sherlock grinned. 

“Gods help me, I do.” John sighed catching Sherlock’s hand to thread their fingers together.

“You’re really partners?” Dante asked from across the carriage. John had almost forgotten the boy was there. 

“I am most fortunate to have John as both my partner, and my husband.” Sherlock said bringing their joined hands up to drop a kiss to the back of John’s.

Dante nodded, but said nothing more, merely watched them closely from the side of his eye as the carriage worked its way across town, ferrying them back towards Little Arabonia.

~ o ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My work is neither beta-ed nor brit-picked. If anyone sees any typos or boo-boo's, DO drop me a line. UwU*


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has hopes that Basketville Hall will be more cheerful on the inside. Hmmmm.

~ o ~

 

The cinnamon swirls looked delicious, and Sherlock found himself reaching out to snag the largest one on the plate to have with his cup of tea. Often, he could go days without thinking about food at all, but there wasn’t much that Mrs. Hudson baked that he could easily pass up.

This was obviously an opinion shared by his secretary, one Mr. Nicholas Brumby, as the man was already helping himself to his second pastry. He was a short, well-tailored beardy man who managed the world efficiently with the aid of a smart pair of spectacles perched at the end of his nose. Just at the moment though, he looked quite uncharacteristically mussed with bits of cinnamon sugar crumbled into beard. He cheerfully ignored them to wipe his hands on a napkin, and shuffle through a stack of papers sat by his plate.

The two of them were cozily ensconced at a table in the corner of Mrs. Hudson’s bakery at an hour in the late morning that drew the fewest customers. They had the run of the place besides Mrs. Hudson herself, and one of her many descendants who popped in occasionally to see if they needed anything. Their pot of earl grey was nearly done, and it would only be a moment or two before someone showed up to replace it with a freshly-steaming one. It was a damp day, and the yeasty-scented warmth of the bake shop was a welcome respite from the dreary weather outside. One could look for greater comforts than this in life, but it would be a long and needless search Sherlock mused tipping his tea cup back to drain it.

Sherlock had taken to slipping gold coins occasionally into the bake shop’s till when no one was looking, and Mrs. Hudson’s children helped by pretending that he hadn’t done so. Mrs. Hudson, herself, refused to accept any money from either him or John. Sherlock knew that being both her tenants, and frequent consumers of baked goods added up, and he didn’t wish to become a financial burden over time. He and Mrs. Hudson went far back - both owing each other many favours, but as a prince of the realm, he literally had money to burn if he so chose. Why not share the unasked-for wealth with the people he counted as ersatz family?

Sherlock poured the last of the tea form the pot into his newly-empty cup, and added three lumps from the sugar dish on the table. He and his secretary met at a variety of places to discuss their business – Sherlock insisted on flexibility in his staff, but Mrs. Hudson’s shop was always a favourite spot. They could have simply met at the flat next door at 221B, but John was having a lie-in, and Sherlock didn’t want to disturb him from his needed rest, plus . . . fresh cinnamon rolls, of course.

John had been overly occupied with the goings-on at the Sanctuary, as usual, over the last few days, and was finally free for their holiday away. Once Sherlock finished up with his secretary, he too could start focusing on their imminent trip to Basketville Hall. He decided solving a wrongly-accused murder, uncovering an embezzlement scandal, and returning a missing boy to his home was a decent job done for the past week. Sherlock was glad their outing to retrieve Dante Scarsi from the brothel had gone so well. It had been gratifying to deposit the boy on his parents’ doorstep in the dead of night, and witness the outpouring of goodwill and general joviality that had washed over to include him and John in its midst.

Angelo Scarsi had dragged them inside, and insisted on making everyone a midnight feast that had included any number of neighbors and extended family roused from their sleep to join the madness. You’d have never known that Dante and his father had parted on bad terms the way they had immediately fallen on each other with tears and kisses, and loud endearments in rapid-fire Arabonian. His mother had wept, and hugged Dante till he squeaked, then spent the rest of the night pushing more and more elaborate Arabonian dishes and liqueurs on Sherlock and John until they could neither consume another bite, nor walk a straight line. They had ended up passing out on a small mattress in their storeroom, and catching a cab home a few hours after light when they could function enough to leave.

The return of the prodigal son, indeed, Sherlock thought, remembering the smile on Dante’s face as his younger siblings and aunties had crowded around him, and his family had feted him until dawn. It was a bleeding shame, he reflected, that he and his own father had never come to any sort of reconciliation before his death. Of course royals were _different_ from ordinary folk – or so Sherlock liked to tell himself. It could be that he father had simply been rotten to the core, and uncaring of any of his offspring if they weren’t fulfilling the role of some political pawn. Or it could be that he was merely a rotten son and had been undeserving of his father’s love. Sherlock wondered as he had many times over the past few months if he would do any better as a father, or remain a stand-offish presence unable to connect with his own son, soon to be born. He and John had certainly discussed it at length, and Irene had even reassured him that he was not the same man as his father, and certainly not doomed to repeat history with no say of his own. Sadly, the worry still lived to niggle occasionally at the back of his mind despite his many attempts to quash it.

Sherlock drank the last of his tea, and set the cup back onto its saucer, looking up as his secretary selected a few pages from his pile and passed them over. “There you go, sir, that’s the best of the lot.”

“Thank you, Brumby.” Sherlock took the letters that prospective clients had mailed in and ran his eyes quickly over the small stack of inquiries.

_Missing wife – no, ridiculous. She’d run off with a lover. What was the point of getting in the middle of that domestic mess?_

_Man saying he was wrongly accused of stealing, and wished to be clear of charges – wrong, he was definitely involved._

Sherlock rifled the pile, tossing the dross to the side, and handed Brumby back the few letters that held any promise - missing jewels, and a long-lost heir. “Follow up on these two, and let me know what you find out. I’ll only be out of town for a week. If anything requires my immediate attention, you can send word via a courier to Basketville hall, but I think these things will all keep.”

“Very good, sir.” Brumby nodded, taking the papers back from Sherlock and carefully placing them inside his leather satchel.

Sherlock maintained three different post office boxes around Delphium for his detective business, and Brumby did an excellent job as go-between teasing out clients worthy of his attention from the absolute idiotic correspondence he received. On occasion, Brumby had also shown rare talent at finding information at places that would have been difficult for Sherlock to appear in person. He still kept as much as possible to his persona of Sherlock-the-detective over that of Prince-William-the-dull, and Brumby could fill in for him in scenarios where he might be recognized. His secretary had an good eye for gathering detail from a situation, but of course he would not have hired the man if he were less than acceptable.  

A jingle of bells had Sherlock flicking his eyes to the bakery's entrance. He expected to see some matron with a child in tow, or a shop clerk stopping by for an early elevenses, but was treated instead to the sight of John pushing through the door. It never ceased to amaze Sherlock how utterly beautiful his John was. He could still catch a glimpse of the man out of the corner of his eye unexpectedly, and register the details – _ash blond hair . . . golden skin . . . perfect proportions . . . who is this gorgeous creature -_ before realizing, oh it’s John, of course.  John’s eyes widened at seeing him as well, and it was but a few steps before he was bending down to plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Hello, my love, I didn’t realize you were down here.” _Obviously._ Sherlock smiled fondly at him as John turned to shake hands with his assistant. “Hullo, Nick, how are things?”

“Oh, can’t complain, sir, can’t complain.” Brumby positively beamed at John. Everyone liked John. It was an involuntary thing - like enjoying the feeling of sun on your face.

“Are you two in the thick of it? I’ll just grab a bite, and faff off if you’re busy.” John looked back and forth between them. “We didn’t have much in the kitchen upstairs.” He added to Sherlock by way of apology for his supposed intrusion.

“Of course not, we’re just finishing up. Stay.” Sherlock cut in quickly, laying a hand to John’s wrist lest he think to go away again.

“Here, I’ll get you a seat, sir.” Brumby was already up, and gathering a chair from another table.

Mrs. Hudson appeared from the back of the shop drawn by the noise, and clapped her hands together at the sight of their latest arrival. “John! I haven’t seen you in forever. How are you, dear?” She called, moving from behind the counter to join them. “I was wondering if Sherlock had finally chased you away!”

“Not a chance. He’s stuck with me.” John leaned in to give Mrs. Hudson a buss on the cheek. “I’ve just been busy with work.”

“Too busy.” Sherlock muttered to himself.

“John, what can I get you?” Mrs. Hudson patted his arm. “I’ve got some of that chicken soup you like so much on the hob.”

“Sounds grand.” 

“I’ll bring that, and some of the cheddar bread we just made this morning.”

“That would be lovely, yeh, thanks.” John said sliding the chair out to sit down.

“And another pot of tea.” Sherlock called out to Mrs. Hudson’s quickly retreating back. The formidable old woman just waved at him without turning around, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Well, anything on you can talk about?” John asked, smiling.

Sherlock never specifically planned to keep things hidden from John, well, not exactly. Sometimes though, it was complicated to give a summary of things if he had come in at the middle. Today though, he had little that was new brewing up.

“Between things really until we get back from holiday.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Well, bit of a working holiday though, eh? What are we meant to be solving exactly with this Lord Basketville?” John asked, taking the last cinnamon swirl, and biting half of it down in one go.

“It should be a simple matter, really.” Sherlock said, watching John chew. _How did he make simple mastication look so attractive?_ “Lord Basketville has been suffering from a mysterious spate of house thefts despite locked doors, rooms guarded with spells, and firing all suspicious staff. For some reason, the identity of the thief or thieves remains unsolved. That plus some odd goings on has everyone swearing the house is haunted. It’s putting a crimp in his social standing, and he’d like help putting a stop to it. The situation . . . caught my eye.”

“So he knows about you as Prince William, and your detective work as Sherlock?” John devoured the last of his roll, licking his thumb clean of a smear of sugar topping.

“Not exactly.” Sherlock leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes involuntarily tracking the dart of John’s tongue over the back of his hand. “Sherringford let it slip again at a gathering about my little ‘detective hobby’.” Sherlock made ironic air quotes at the phrase. “ Basketville’s ears perked up. It seems he’s decided to kill two birds with one stone – increase his status with the visit of a prince and his consort, and have a detective in to quietly solve his little mystery. For various reasons, he said he wishes to keep the whole matter very discreet. I’m sure we’ll hear the details after we arrive.”

“It sounds like it might keep you occupied for a day at least.” John chuckled.

Mrs. Hudson’s younger daughter, Rose, appeared from the kitchen carrying a bowl of soup for John and a plate of fresh sliced bread.

“Ta, Rose.” John smiled as she set the simple bounty down on the table.

“You’re very welcome.” The pretty woman tipped her head. “Let us know if you like the bread. We added a bit of rosemary and caraway to the recipe? It was my idea. I’m not sure how it came out.” She frowned slightly as she reached for the empty plate that had previously held the cinnamon rolls.

“It smells heavenly.” John said, inhaling deeply over the bread before reaching over to select a slice.

“Mmm,” he said after taking a reasonable-sized bite. “It tastes even better than it smells.”

“Oh good.” Rose's face cleared at John’s obvious enjoyment. “I’ll be sure to let mum know.”

“And another pot of tea?” Sherlock called to her retreating back.

“Right, just a tick.” Came the reply over her shoulder as she too disappeared into the rear of the shop.

“Do you mind?” Brumby asked John, gesturing to the bread.

“Oh please, be my guest. I couldn’t possibly eat all this.” John nudged the plate closer toward the man who had finally dusted his beard free of crumbs to begin anew.

“And what of the . . . other matter?” John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Brumby knows about the Monsieur Croque as alleged spy assignment.” Sherlock replied with a careless wave of his hand, “though for security purposes perhaps we should refer to him as ‘the cheese sandwich’ as code henceforth.”

“All right, so what’s the deal with the cheese sandwich then?” John asked, spooning up a bite of his soup.

Sherlock flicked his eyes to his assistant to answer the more tedious nature of the conversation.

“Ah,” Brumby cleared his throat, and leaned forward, setting down his unfinished bit of bread to answer. “Antoine Croque, a low-level diplomat from Gallatia, suddenly comes into some money after just scraping by, at the same time that some sensitive military information appears in the courts of Gallatia. The king wanted the possible connection investigated.”

“I thought we were meant to be at peace with Gallatia at this point.” John glanced in Sherlock's direction.

“We are, but you know the game, John, boxes within boxes. There’s always secrets and spies, but if a rat exists close to the Brettonian government, Mycroft wants names and profiles.”

“Ah, and we’re to spy on this cheese sandwich over the course of this frivolous house party to see if he does anything suspicious whilst on fox hunts with the eclairs, or playing whist with the tea cakes?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock nodded.

Rose’s older sister, Alice, bustled into the room bearing a tray of biscuits that she slipped into the display at the counter.

“Alice, luv,” John called over. “Would you mind awfully getting some more tea, and another cup?”

“Oh, no worries.” Alice smiled and left with the tray, returning a few minutes later with a cup for John and a fresh pot of tea for the table.

Sherlock watched John as he poured them all a new cup once the leaves had steeped. He and Brumby had started on about some local sports team now, and what the odds were of their favorites winning. Sherlock could get cross over the teapot incident, but what would be the point? He had his fresh cup of tea at hand, and he stirred in the necessary sweetener, sipping it down when it was cooled sufficiently to drink.

The best part about it all was that John didn’t even know that he did it. It wasn’t part of his healing talent, this ability to have people roll over like kittens at his feet to do his bidding, it was just . . . John. Sherlock tracked John’s hand as it spun through the air demonstrating some obviously winning rugby move, before it moved to clap Brumby on the shoulder. The two of them were chortling now over some amusing anecdote like schoolboys. Brumby was of course an excellent assistant, and Sherlock could safely say that they had a very good working relationship, but it was nothing like the easy camaraderie that he and John had managed to accomplish within a few minutes of meeting.

Sports truly did remain one of those conversation topics along with the weather that men could reliably bond over without too much mental effort. Not for the first time, it occurred to Sherlock that learning at least a rudimentary knowledge of various sports groups in the area would smooth over those times when at least some basic small talk was called for. Nope. He still didn’t feel like taking the time and sacrificing the brain space to do it. He dismissed the idea out of hand once again.

He must have been staring, because John turned, and placed a hand over his resting across the table top. “Sorry, love. Just nattering on for a bit.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock assured him, and basked in the smile that John sent his way. Really he was just like all those other pups who rolled over, and bared their bellies to make John happy. The only difference was that John did the same for him in return, and that was . . . more than fine. That was excellent.

~ o ~

 

Their carriage bounced over roads that had seen better days as their journey toward Basketville Hall finally neared its end. The day was overcast, and the scenery dull, and John had simply put his head down on Sherlock’s lap and slept through most of the trip. That was another of John’s many talents that Sherlock envied – his unerring knack of being able to fall sleep at any time in any place. Sherlock assumed that being a solider had strengthened the talent, and of course he never minded being John’s pillow as he ruminated over thoughts of his own.

 His mind had of course wandered through the possible reasons for the unsolved crimes at Basketville Hall as a precursor to their arrival. A long-term servant who lied extremely well was of course one strong possibility for the thefts, but a boringly obvious one. Lord Henry R. Basketville was a wealthy, but not overly well-liked man on his second wife. His first wife had purportedly been a nervous woman given to flights of fancy, and worry. After several fretful years of marriage, and several tragic miscarriages, she had died of the pox leaving the lord childless. Lord Basketville had recovered quickly, remarrying shortly after her funeral, and the new young wife had quickly produced at least two bouncing babies at this point. It was possible one of the first wife’s relatives doubted her good treatment at Basketville’s hands, and was enacting some kind of revenge on the man. All were possible ideas, but true conjectures would have to wait until some hard evidence could be gathered at the scene.

Sherlock looked down to where John’s head still lay nestled on his lap, the rest of him stretched across the coach’s padded bench, rocking with the movement of the vehicle as he dozed. He had fixed an arm across John’s back to keep him from sliding off the seat without even noticing that he had done it. Watching John sleep always brought out such feelings of protectiveness in him. He didn’t know what deity had decided that an odd duck like himself should be deemed the mate for such a rare soul as John Watson, but he couldn’t express enough gratitude that it was so. Sherlock debated waking his husband so that he wouldn’t be too groggy on their arrival, but John roused on his own. He rolled onto his back, and stretched to look up at Sherlock with such a softness in his half-lidded eyes.

“Hello there, gorgeous.” His John drawled, reaching up to cup a hand to Sherlock's jaw, running his thumb over the slight prickle of whiskers he found there.

“Hello strange man who wandered in here, and fell asleep on me. Have we met before?” Sherlock sent up an eyebrow.

“I certainly hope we’ve met before as I have distinct memories of you shagging me near blind just last Sunday.” John’s eyes crinkled up in humor as he traced a finger over the smug smile that had unfurled itself across Sherlock’s face.

It was quite true. Sherlock could get a bit randy when a particularly thorny or time-consuming case ended after days of focused concentration away from John. The Scarsi matter had been rather straight-forward, but it had left him extraordinarily libidinous at its conclusion. He blamed it on that trip to the dungeon. It had reawakened things within in him that he craved, and John only partially understood. Still, his lovemaking with John was a beautiful thing, and dearer than gems in his life.

“Ah yes, the memory is coming clearer now.” He teased, kissing John’s fingers, then pulling him upright for a proper snog. 

They had parted, and sorted themselves by the time they caught their first glimpse of the tall spires of the manor peeking over the trees. As the carriage rounded the main drive to pull in front of Basketville Hall, they got their first proper look at the place. The cloudy day was perhaps not the optimal time to view the grand house to its best advantage. The grey stone of the rambling manor looked to be a dismal extension of the overcast and darkened sky above. Pairs of narrow windows placed at regular spots along the stone walls looked like nothing so much as sets of disapproving eyes bearing down on them. The several spiky weather vanes and lightning rods set atop the tallest of the turrets continued the formidable appearance of the place making it look more untouchable than whimsical as the original designer had perhaps intended.

John peered out the window as their carriage crunched to a stop on the gravel drive. “Cor, it’s a gloomy-looking spot. Not exactly Rosewood Manor, is it?” He exclaimed.

Indeed, the comparison between Lord Basketville’s home, and their own country estate sprang readily to his own mind as well. Whereas Rosewood Manor fairly glowed with welcome, covered in soft tendrils of ivy, and the smell of growing things at any time besides the depths of winter, this place had a chilly feeling to it that went beyond the coolness of the autumn weather. The grounds of Basketville were obviously well-kept, and sculpted bushes bordered what looked to be some nice gardens, but the flat light of the cloudy day had rendered the whole scene in depressing tones of sepia and grey. 

“Nothing compares to Rosewood Manor in my book, but this look of this place doesn’t bode well all on its own merit. They must have chosen 'extra gloomy' when building it.” Sherlock snorted.

“Never mind, I’m sure it will be more cheerful once we get inside.” John offered optimistically.

A few servants made their way from the house to meet them some minutes after they had climbed down from the coach to enjoy the welcome change of solid ground under the feet after the hours of incessant rocking. Sherlock took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the good odors of wet leaves and the back notes of wood smoke wafting on the chilly air. 

“Good afternoon, my lords.” An elderly woman greeted them, leading the procession of several young footmen who had obviously been dispatched to see to their luggage. "I am Mrs. Garrott, the housekeeper here, and I welcome you both to Basketville hall."

Sherlock turned to her slipping in to his “hale and well met good fellow" persona with an imbecilic smile that people seemed to like. “A pleasant day to you my good woman, but I must admit to a higher title than mere _lord._ Prince William Carrington at your service, if you please, and this is my consort, Healer Watson-Holmes.” 

The woman looked mildly frightened at having made some slight of etiquette with her betters, and instantly dropped into a deep curtsey. “Yes, Your Highnesses. I beg your pardon.”

John flashed him an annoyed look, but Sherlock shook his head slightly. It was all part of the game. John seemed to catch himself then, and shifted to affect a bored, and haughty expression that looked almost laughable on his amiable John.

“Quite all right.” Sherlock sniffed waving the woman off magnanimously. “Just see that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Your Majesties, If you would please follow me, I’ll show you to your rooms.” The woman practically bowed and scraped all the way to the front door, and Sherlock followed her with his nose in the air.

He risked a glance at John, and almost wished he hadn’t. John looked as though he were biting the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. Sherlock felt giggles bubbling up inside him in sympathy, and he had to clear his throat grandly to stop them. Ah, dear John. Sherlock thought fondly. The man kept his feet firmly on the ground whenever he neared any delusions of grandeur. 

They paused at the open door to the foyer as John put out a hand out to touch the braided corn-dolly wreathe hanging above the knocker. “Look at that, it’s just charming.” John exclaimed. It was the first bit of pleasantness they had found about the manor so far.

“Charming in more ways that one.” Sherlock noted passing his own fingers over it.

His talent as a chameleon mage left him sensitive to energies in general. This decoration seemed to be filled with a spell for happiness, and good luck in general. Sadly it didn’t seem to extend much past the door, but at least it was a nice boost as they made their way into the house. The entry hall was done up in black and white tile, with pale grey flocked wall paper that had at some point no doubt been the height of fashion, but now looked rather gloomy in the overcast autumn light.

“I say. Is Lord Basketville, available? I rather thought the old fellow would meet us himself?” Sherlock made a small moue of displeasure as a butler closed the door behind them sealing off what little cheer and light was to be found on the porch.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, the master is currently detained, but I’ll let him know you’ve arrived. I’m sure he’ll be with you directly.” The housekeeper looked afraid again, and Sherlock decided to be merciful. 

“I suppose that will have to do.” He sighed. “Lead us on to our rooms then, my good woman.”

Sadly, John’s earlier optimistic prediction that the inside of the house might be more attractive than its outside proved to not be true at all. John stayed close to Sherlock as they followed the housekeeper through several dimly-lit, drafty corridors spruced up with nothing much beyond a few old suits of armor, and the occasional ancient-looking wall hanging.

It was simply a ghastly old place, Sherlock mused, though to be charitable the house was perhaps a bit more lively on sunnier days. Finally the servant stopped their seemingly endless trek to bow them into the bedchamber that was to be theirs. Sherlock looked it over quickly in a single glance, and decided that with the large four poster bed, the well-stocked fireplace, and a thick rug underfoot they would at least be comfortable enough here during their stay. A small crowd of domestics soon bustled in behind them including the brawny footmen carrying their luggage from the carriage.

John had moved to perch awkwardly on a settee by the windows, keeping out of the way as the phalanx of servants worked, some unpacking and storing their garments, as one girl set about lighting the wood laid in the hearth. He had never seemed to catch the nobles’ trick of not seeing servants unless they were expressly needed. Sherlock went to stand by the fireplace, propping himself artlessly against the mantle, warming himself against the newly kindled flames.

As the servants moved out of the way, he made a quick survey of the room noting the primitive facilities. There was nothing but a chamber pot, and a bowl for wash water in the small side room. Many of these older homes had yet to be retrofitted with modern indoor plumbing, but that wasn’t too unusual. Still he sighed inwardly on John’s behalf. He knew how much John enjoyed a soak in the evenings. It hadn’t completely escaped him that this outing was meant to be a rejuvenating respite from John’s hectic schedule, and not just a chance for him to muck about indulging his penchant for finding clues. 

“Is there anything else you require, Your Highnesses?” The housekeeper asked politely before her departure.

“Wash water. Hot, please.” Sherlock requested.

“Would Your Majesty care for a full bath?” She asked raising her eyebrows slightly.

“Just a pitcher will do.” Sherlock assured her. They’d cross the hurdle of needing a whole tub filled by hand when they came to it.

“Certainly, Your Highness. I’ll pass on your message that you wish to see the master as well.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock nodded at the woman as she curtseyed, and pulled the door closed behind her.

“Whew,” John sighed rising from his sanctuary on the sofa. “I never get used to that circus act.” He crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed, bouncing to test its thickness.

“I know. If it’s any consolation, at least we don’t have to suffer any strangers serving as valet. I have Goodson coming to stay the week with us. He should be arriving later today.” Mr. Goodson had long been Sherlock’s body servant when he had to spend time at the palace, and John was fond of the patient man. “He’ll be familiar, and he’ll also be invaluable at gathering information from the servants in places that we wouldn’t otherwise be privy to.”

“I’d figured as much.” John agreed leaning back to stretch out over the bed. “Well, from what I’ve seen the manor is pretty manky, but at least this mattress looks new.”

“To be fair, most older manors tend to be a little weather-beaten around the edges,” Sherlock said, coming to sit on the edge of the bed next to John, “but this one does have that extra 'down-and-out' thing going on as well. Lord Basketville isn’t experiencing any financial difficulties as far as I know. We’ll have to see what exactly is afoot here.”

“Gambling debts?” John asked rolling onto his side to face Sherlock, propping his head up over a bent elbow.

“Could just be feting a new wife with trinkets and outings.” Sherlock shrugged. “More evidence is needed for an exact deduction though.”

“Are we deducing just yet or do we have time to bless a new bed?” John waggled his eyebrows almost comically as he patted the mattress next to him. “Can Bunny come out to play?” He voice dropped to a gravely burr.

Sherlock shivered. If anyone else knew that John had named his penis something as silly as “Bunny” he might have to murder them in their sleep. When John said it though, his cock twitched happily as if knowing its true and rightful moniker.

Sherlock grinned in response, and was just about to show him how Bunny felt about being asked to come out and play, when a sharp knock at the door interrupted them. “Hold that thought.” Sherlock sighed reaching out to pat John’s thigh on his way to answer the caller.

A new woman, much younger, stood in the hallway holding a steaming pitcher before her.

“Good day, I have your water, Your Majesty.” The woman curtsied extravagantly, nearly tipping said water over, before Sherlock caught her elbow.

“Yes, yes, come in then.” Sherlock held the door wider for her. If the servants were going to be this overawed at having someone of his rank visiting, he was sorry he’d made such a point of announcing it upon arriving.

The woman hurried through the room, stopping to make another curtsy to John who had sat back up to perch more primly on the edge of the bed. Once she had deposited the wash water by the basin, she hurried back, dipping down again before Sherlock to announce “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I’m also to tell you His Lordship, Lord Basketville, is currently detained at this time, but will receive all the guests this evening in the downstairs parlour at five for a cocktail party. He says he will able to meet with you then.”

“I see. Well, thank you for the message.” Sherlock wished he had a sweet in his pocket for the thing, she looked so ill at ease, and so terribly young.

“Very good, Your Highness.” She bobbed John’s way once more. “And . . . Your Highness as well. If you’ll excuse me, please.”

At Sherlock’s nod, the girl mercifully dipped her head a final time, and scurried out the door.

“That is going to get exhausting.” John said rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“I agree.” Sherlock sighed glancing at a clock on the mantle. “Also, sadly, it looks like we don’t have time for fun and games just yet. It’s nearly half four already. Come on, let’s splash off and make ourselves pretty for this evening. After dinner, I’ll take you up on your kind offer, good sir.”

“Only half an hour to get pretty? We’d best get cracking.” John smiled.

John got in a nice arse grope during the washing and dressing, but sadly there wasn't time for much else before they needed to leave for the scheduled event. They were outfitted as well as one could be without the magnificent skills of Goodson available. Sherlock readily admitted how much he needed the valet in situations such as this when he played Prince William to the hilt. Still, they had on ruffles, and he’d managed to tie John’s neckcloth well enough. They would do.

Sherlock led the way through the many corridors now gone from dim to shadowy lit by the dubious flicker of mage flame set in few and far-between wall sconces. He thanked his keen memory for guiding them back to the ground level where the main parlour surely lay. Basketville hall boasted a distinct lack of servants about to give them any directions, but thankfully once they reached the bottom floor, it became more apparent where they needed to go. More lights and the noise of people drew them to a room that was a virutal hive of mirth and activity compared to the rest of the building. They pushed through the half-opened door revealing a well-lit room painted a dusky pink, and filled with any number of artfully-dressed nobles lounging about as nobles do.

“Come, John. Operation Entrance.” Sherlock hissed, putting out his arm for John to take as they stood at the threshold. It never paid to enter a room of the courtly-bred timidly. With a good deal of flair, Sherlock swept into the gathering, raking the place with a distinctly bored glance. “All right, who do you have to shag to get a drink around here?” He drawled.

A tall blond man propped by the fireplace turned around, and straightened up to grin widely at him. “Aw, Bunny. I’d do it for nothing, but you can have my drink afterwards if you want.”

Oh, buggery hell. Sherlock could feel John tensing up beside him. For some reason his advance intel had completely missed the fact that Victor Trevor would be at this party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was utterly blown away by the characterization of Victor Trevor in PerverselyVex's story [The Rabbit Revealed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/862734) I couldn't get over Victor calling Sherlock, "Bunny," as a nickname in the fic & it just stuck as head canon. I use the name here in utter tribute to this wonderful, saucy work. Go read it if you get a chance.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did Victor Trevor really have to be at the party too? Poor John.

~ o ~

 

“Lord Trevor, you old sod. What rock did you climb out from under?” Sherlock's smile belied his sharp words as he stepped away from John to meet Victor Trevor in a back-pounding hug.

John gritted his teeth watching the two of them trying to good-naturedly crush each other’s ribs. Galloping Gods. Of course Victor Trevor would be the icing on the cake at this party in a mausoleum. The man was simply too gorgeous to be allowed. Every time John saw the golden man next to Sherlock he couldn’t help thinking what a lovely couple they made – two tall patrician demi-gods one in blond, and one in dark like a matched salt and pepper set of beauty.

“I could say the same of you, Your Royal Highness, all tamed and settled down. They hardly ever let you out these days, do they?” Victor teased, giving Sherlock’s arm a last squeeze as they finally pulled apart.

“Marital bliss.” Sherlock drawled out the words. “You should try it sometime. Victor.”

“Funny you should say that.” Victor looked almost shyly at the floor before raising his cornflower-blue eyes to Sherlock’s. “I’m announcing my engagement next month.”

“YOU?” Sherlock’s face pulled an almost comic "o" of surprise. “Surely you’re too fast to avoid the priest’s noose, my dear.”

“Obviously it happens to the best of us.” Victor’s eyes went past Sherlock’s shoulder to include John.

“John.” He nodded.

“Victor.” John nodded back. 

Sherlock seemed to remember John all in a rush, and he reached over to lay a hand to the curve of his back.

“Wine, sir?” A young man carrying a tray of drinks stopped at their side. 

“Don’t mind if do.” Sherlock said helping himself to a glass, and passing one to John as well. Victor finished the drink in his hand, and set his empty on the plate to grab a new one.

“So, who’s the lucky one?” Sherlock asked Victor once the servant had moved on. 

“The esteemed Miss Victoria Waterford, and before you say it I already know. Victor/Victoria - what a scream.” 

“She’s a wealthy little thing, isn’t she? Top heiress in the country?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow high as he took a sip of wine. “You must have really turned on the charm to snag her eye, you penniless creature. Why now though?”

“Never much the diplomat were you, luv?” Victor grinned. “It’s my father’s will, of course. The great beast threatened to completely cut me out if I didn’t wed by two and thirty. This month is my last hurrah of freedom, as it were.” He tossed back half his glass in one swallow. “I’ll be joining the ranks of the chained, eh?” Victor smiled in a way that looked more like a leer. 

“There are benefits to marriage, of course.” Sherlock said glancing briefly back at John. He was clearly making a stab at that diplomacy thing John thought slightly sourly, taking a swallow of his own wine.

“And detractions.” Victor shrugged. “Why back in the day, this little rabbit fucked half of Delphium, didn’t you, Bunny?” Victor winked, and tossed back the rest of his drink.

John couldn’t help tensing. Of course he knew about Sherlock’s wild past. Hells, he hadn’t exactly been a blushing virgin himself when they’d first met. Still hearing it laid out so baldly like that made something clench in his chest. 

“And you took the other half.” Sherlock replied, peering at the tall man more closely. “But times change, people grow up. Honestly, Victor, are you completely pissed this early in the evening?”

They were interrupted by an attractive woman in a deep grey dress that did nothing to disguise her ample bosom as she sidled up to Victor, scooping his free arm up in both of hers. 

“Darling, you’re being very naughty hogging the only interesting people here. Be a good boy and introduce me to your friends.”

“Ah, this, my good fellows, is the unequaled Lady Catherine Riley. Milady, may I present his Royal Highness, Prince William Carrington, and his consort Healer John Watson-Holmes. 

The woman’s eyes glittered as she dipped into a small curtsey to Sherlock. She was quite pretty, fair of face in the country-rose sort of way, with a wealth of auburn curls piled atop her head. “How lovely to meet you, Your Highness,” she cooed towards Sherlock, then dipped again for John, “and Your Grace. But please call me Kitty, everyone does.” She held a gloved hand out to Sherlock coyly.

“Milady,” Sherlock bent over her hand. “Well met. I don’t believe we’ve run into each other before. I would remember one such as you.” A playful smile chased over Sherlock’s lips as he laid a kiss to the back of her knuckles. 

“Well, why would you? I’ve been buried in Eastbourne in a marriage nearly as soon as I left the schoolroom.” Kitty reached back to pat her hair once Sherlock released her. “Thankfully the old fossil finally kicked off, and I’ve been allowed to return to the land of the living.” She trilled a small laugh after her pronouncement as if it were all a big joke, though her eyes said something different. 

“Can’t say that this is the most lively of places to have resurfaced into the polite world, my girl.” Victor raised his eyebrows at her, and spread a hand out to indicate the old manor around them.

“Oh, Victor. Don’t sell yourself short. Princes, lords, and rogues make for fine company at a country manor.” Kitty slid her eyes over the three of them, landing finally on John. The most mischievous look spread over her face as she winked at him. “At least until I’m officially out of mourning greys.” 

“Well, you wear the colour beautifully, my dear.” Victor grinned, stopping another servant with a tray of drinks to refresh their empty glasses. 

John looked down at his half-drunk glass of wine, and tossed the remaining contents back to keep up with the rest of them. Aristocrats were a notoriously thirsty flock of creatures. John watched the crowd idly as the guests made their way over to pay homage to Sherlock, drawn to royalty like iron fillings to a magnet. One of the first to bustle over was a sharp-faced woman in a dark red dress, her light brown hair twisted up into an elaborate configuration held with many jeweled combs – their hostess as it turned out.

“How do you do? Lady Basketville at your service. We are so pleased you could join our humble gathering, Prince William.” She dropped into a deep curtsy, and Sherlock answered with an elegant bow. “I do apologize, my lord husband was called away to an urgent business matter, but he will join us shortly. I trust your rooms are all to your liking?” After they all murmured polite things about their accommodations, the woman patted John’s arm, and insisted they let her know if she could get them anything at all to make their stay more enjoyable before moving on to speak with another group.

John paid scant attention to the flock of admirers who flittered around Prince William. It was the usual array of the beautiful people - those who were attractive, and those made lovely by money and titles if the Great Mother had not seen fit to bless them with beauty at birth. John smiled, shaking hands when needed, nodding amiably when not. Sherlock was in high form flirting and joshing with all who spoke to them as if some other man had stepped into his skin. It was only when he glanced back at John with the merest of eye-rolls that he saw his beloved beside him. 

Only one threesome, a man and two women, Lord Summerset and the Ladies Summerset came over to introduce themselves, and shake John’s hand specifically. They gathered around John, bubbling at how grateful they were that he and Sherlock and Irene had made poly marriages acceptable in higher society once more. John smiled at them, happy to see some genuine emotion in the room that evening. 

“It’s so much easier for the children without all that sneaking around. So much better when everything can be proper and legal” The one called Ada said pressing her hand in his. “We owe you so much.” The one called Sharon said stepping in to kiss John’s cheek.

“Well, I had a little help with it, but thank you.” John beamed at them. “Congratulations to you three as well. You make a lovely triad.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s arm to include him in the conversation, but his love was turned, and busy flirting with yet another knot of fans hanging on his every word. 

John was on his third glass of something woodsy and most-likely expensive, when the newest couple to pay their respects to Sherlock wandered over. The man was dressed most outrageously even by court standards in something with an explosion of ruffles over it, but it was the blonde woman on his arm that snagged his attention. It was Mary, the woman who had come with them to Carlo’s Dungeon not days ago, dressed impeccably in a high-necked green frock, and a small hat with feathers perched charmingly at the side of her head. She looked so wide-eyed and innocent, John had trouble placing her at first, but it was definitely the same person.

“Prince William, how wonderful to see you again, Your Highness.” The man had a definite Gallatian accent as he bowed gracefully before Sherlock. 

“Oh, have we met? I have such a terrible memory for names, I must confess.” Sherlock simpered, titling his head charmingly to the side. 

Victor, who was still at his elbow, looked as if he might burst out laughing, but Sherlock shoved him subtly in the ribs. The Gallatian looked definitely put out, but regrouped with a another burst of enthusiasm. 

“Ah, I understand. You see many in your position. We met briefly at the wedding of the Prince, your brother, and the Lady Genevieve, but it was quite the crush. Allow me to introduce myself, Monsieur Antoine Croque at your service. I serve as a diplomat between Galatia and your royal court.” He turned his head to beam down at the woman on his arm. “Allow me to also present this enchanting creature, my new friend, Miss Mary Morstan.” 

“How lovely to see you both.” Sherlock said nodding affably, if somewhat distantly as though he hadn’t visited a whore house just last week with Mary. When John started to say something to that effect, Sherlock stepped on his foot under the pretext of shifting which leg he leant his weight on. “Have you visited Basketville Hall before?” Sherlock asked the couple politely, leaning in a bit more closely to better block John's grimaces.

“No, I have not had the pleasure. Have you, my dear?” Croque turned to include Miss Morstan. 

“I have not, but I do look forward to a lovely time here.” She smiled, widening her eyes just a bit more if that were at all possible. “You know, Prince William, it is possible we might have met somewhere before, in passing, as well.” 

“Ah, that is possible.” Sherlock tapped one finger by his mouth as if considering her. “One meets so many new faces at royal events, you know.” Sherlock seemed to be racking his memory as a ghost of a smile hovering at his lips. “No, I'm so sorry. It is an unfortunate drawback to notoriety that one may encounter a great number of people, but remember so few.”

“Well, if we have met again, then it is lovely to see you once more, Your Royal Highness.” Mary returned with just a hint of a twinkle in her innocent blue stare. “Hopefully this encounter will be more memorable. One gets to know people so much better in more intimate settings.” 

“That is true, Miss Morstan.” Sherlock mused. “People can also wear on each other’s nerves more quickly in close quarters. I hope this will not be so for this week.” 

“Surely with such delightful company as those gathered at this party, this will not be the case.” Mary tossed back.

“That’s if a ghost doesn’t get us first.” Victor chuckled. 

“Ghost?” M. Croque looked concerned as he glanced around at the company for smiles, wondering if a joke were being played. “What is this _ghost_?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Kitty wrinkled up her nose. “Basketville Hall is haunted, simply crawling with evil spirits – or so everyone says.” 

“Not just spirits – poltergeists.” Victor leaned in with a wicked grin. “I’ve heard tales that furniture here flies around the room, things go missing, dogs disappear to be taken by the spirits, and all that’s left is their ghostly bark still heard from the other side. Woooooo!” He wiggled fingers to punctuate his spooky wail. 

“This is the first I’ve heard of it, darling.” Mary patted M. Croque’s arm reassuringly. “Surely if it were true so many people would not have shown up for a week-long house party here.” She shot Victor an annoyed look. 

“Old wives’ tales.” Sherlock cut in with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Or pranks being played on this household surely. True haunting are very rare, and no one has yet to prove the existence of poltergeists. If things are going missing, I suspect it is very human hands at work.” 

“Oh Bunny,” Victor shook his head at Sherlock. “Always the pragmatist. No romance in this one’s soul, eh?” He shrugged, and took another long drink from his glass.

Red heat washed over John at hearing Victor using that name with Sherlock again. Why hadn’t Sherlock ever TOLD him that his ex-boyfriend had nick-named him _Bunny_ of all things. And no romance in his husband’s soul? Did they even know the same man? John was not fond of Victor Trevor, and his opinion of him was sinking faster than low tide this evening. He was just about to give the ignorant clod a large piece of his mind when a commotion drew everyone’s attention to the door. A broad, well-dressed man with a dark beard shot with just a hint of grey had swept into the room. Ah, John thought, the master had finally arrived. 

The man moved about the space like an otter through water, sleekly greeting all, but never getting caught anywhere too long. With a practiced ease, he reached Sherlock soon enough, dipping into a bow, then extending a hand to shake warmly.

“Your Highness. It is such an honor to have you at our home.” He boomed taking one of Sherlock’s hands between both of his to pump. “Thank you for coming. Please excuse my tardiness. As we know, in running things whether it be an estate or a country, sometimes business takes us away from more pleasant things.” 

“Think nothing of it, sir, we are happy to be here.” Sherlock said, extricating his hand from the man’s exuberant grip. “There was a matter you wished to discuss as well though, perhaps . . .” Sherlock trailed off, and Lord Basketville jumped in to fill the gap. 

“Indeed, indeed, but dinner before business here at Basketville hall. Cook should have the meal nearly ready, and we would hate to put such wonderful efforts to waste. Let us speak after we have supped.” Lord Basketville clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. 

“Of course, Lord Basketville.” Sherlock nodded amiably as he regained his balance.

John wanted to like the man who was hosting them, but he found the lord of the hall loud and overblown. John was quite hungry though, and happy enough to make his way to the man’s table to dine. Servants materialized to lead the gathering to a dining room just down the corridor where a gleaming service had been set to receive them. Sherlock took his arm, and looked down at John with such undisguised affection that John forgave him for all the earlier play-acting he had suffered through. He sighed before he could stop himself. Any time spent with the beau monde was full of games and posturing whether they were on a case or not. At least a case made things interesting. 

The meal was several courses long with much good wine, but the food itself was barely passable often much too underdone or overdone in equal measure. John wasn’t certain that the kitchen staff had quite had their hearts in it this evening. Though Sherlock sat to his right, he spent much of the meal entertaining the other people near him, and John was glad to have Lady Kitty Riley at his left. She had been friendly enough at their first meeting, and remained a pleasant dinner companion as they discussed better ways to cook vegetables without ruining them, occasionally snickering into their napkins at the state of the next dish brought out. John bumped arms with her several times, the unfortunate side effect of being left-handed at dinner parties, but she was very kind at laughing if off. 

That odd woman, Mary, was sat across the table and a few seats down from him, and John was certain he felt her eyes sliding his way a number of times, but each time he glanced toward he, she was in conversation with someone else. 

Poor Lady Basketville looked quite agitated at the state of food as the dinner wore on, becoming more and more aware that something was not quite right with the kitchen that night. At one point, she excused herself and nipped out of the room, most likely to knock some heads about in the servants quarters.

“It’s the curse of Basketville Hall.” Kitty whispered in John’s ear as a platter of completely under-cooked potatoes in butter were offered around. “The ghosts have haunted our dinner.” 

“Do you suppose the spirits are jealous that we get food and they can’t have any?” John raised his eyebrows. 

“Well, they’re welcome to my portion.” Kitty said, wrinkling her nose at the nearly completely flat puff pastries sat on the table.

Following Lady Basketville’s absence, the next round of cold meats and pickle were much better than what had come out previously, and after she returned, a gorgeous blancmange done to perfection was brought out for afters. The lady was almost cheerful, or at least doing a passable job of appearing so, as she passed out schedule of event cards to all the guests. 

John skimmed over his card finding such upcoming delights as a concert, grouse hunt, Fortunes and Forfeits Party, festive hay ride, All Hallow’s Eve bonfire, Masked Black and Silver Ball, and All Soul’s day picnic. 

“Good Gods, we’ll be busy, won’t we?” Kitty muttered to John. “It fair makes my head hurt to think of doing all this, but at least we won’t be bored.”

“Surely no one could be bored with you around to talk to, Mistress Kitty.” John said with a smile.

“Oh, John.” Kitty sighed, leaning in to wrap her fingers over his forearm. “You have no idea how grateful I am to have anyone new to talk to. This last decade has been . . . hard. I’m sorry my husband is dead, I didn’t wish him ill, but it’s like leaving prison to be rid of him, and back in society. I fear I’ve lost the knack of having people around though.”

“Nonsense.” John said, reaching over to place his other hand over hers. “You’re doing fine. I’m sure that if we all pull together, we can survive this week of forced festivities with flying colours.”

Kitty flashed him a grateful smile. “I’m sure you’re right.” She nodded.

Sherlock picked that moment to glance over then at the two of them, raising his eyebrows at their huddled embrace. Feeling self-conscious, John sat up straighter, gently moving his arm out from under Kitty’s grip.

“At least some of these events look as though they won’t require formal wear. I get so tired of dressing up.” John sighed, glancing over his schedule card again.

“Such is the divide of the sexes, I fear.” Kitty laughed. “I’m looking forward to putting on my new finery.” 

“Well, not all men dislike frippery.” John said, cutting his eyes back toward his beautiful husband who had returned to regaling his nearby hangers-on with some funny story.

When dinner had finally drawn to an end, and the diners moved off, the men to take sherry and cigars in another room, and the women back to the parlour for tea and games, Lord Basketville approached Sherlock, laying a hand to his shoulder. “Ah, my good sir, if you could spare a moment, now would be an excellent time for a discussion in my study.” 

“Lord Basketville, I am at your disposal, ” Sherlock assured him. “but if I may also bring my husband along? He assists me on a great number of things.” 

“Of course, my wife may be able to add perspective to the matter at hand as well.” 

~ o ~

Lord Basketville’s study was a classic wood-paneled male bastion of power. Statues of Gods graced the shelved set to either side of a solid-looking desk. John ran his eyes over the figures identifying Memir, God of Wisdom, Heketi the dark crone, and Keerta, Goddess of lost things before Lord Basketville cut through his reverie. 

“May I offer you some port, gentlemen? I received it recently as a gift from one of the guests." He indicated the heavy green bottle sat on his desk." I assure you it’s an excellent vintage. Please, you must try it and tell me what you think.”

John followed Sherlock's suit, and accepted a crystal tumbler of the dark liquid. It was nutty and sweet and slid over his tongue like fiery honey. They both murmured their approval as the door opened to admit Lady Basketville looking much more rumpled than she had at the evening’s start.

“Well, that’s it then.” She declared sinking into one of the chairs by the door. “Cook has quit. She's babbling about seeing some demon ghost in the pantry this evening, and she won’t even stay the night. One of the footmen must drive her into town, and she’ll catch a coach tomorrow. That’s the party ruined.” She dropped her forehead into her hand and sighed deeply. “I don’t know why I thought things might be different this time.”

“Oh, sweetness.” Lord Basketville rose to go to her, laying a comforting hand across her back. “So you see, my good fellows why I asked you here for help.” He turned to John and Sherlock with a wry look across his face. “Basketville Hall is cursed.” 

“And haunted by ghosts?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow.

“So they say.” Lord Basketville replied squeezing his wife’s arm before moving to the desk to pour her a drink as well. “I am a practical man though, Prince William. I believe there is something beyond the spectral tormenting us, and as I was told you make a habit of solving the impossible, I am hoping you can help us bring a stop to it.”

“I solve the improbable, not the impossible sir, but I doubt a spirit could cause this level of trouble.” Sherlock agreed steepling his hands under his chin. “You were somewhat vague in your letter about your particular troubles when I agreed to come however. Perhaps you could give more information about this torment?”

“Of course. Any number of strange happenings have bedeviled us around the manor over the years – things gone missing, odd sounds, odd sightings. We’ve lost so many servants. We let some go when we suspected them of stealing, others left of their own accord when their superstitions got the best of them. We’ve had trouble getting anyone in to do any work on the old place even. The manor has gotten quite a bad reputation with the locals, I fear.” Lord Basketville crossed to hand his wife her glass of port. She accepted it with a grateful smile.

“Lord Basketville, can you remember when the strange occurrences first began?” Sherlock asked.

“Call me Henry, please, and I know precisely when they started – three years ago, shortly after my first wife died.”

“Henry, did your previous wife have any reason to haunt you after her death?” Sherlock asked.

“Eleanor was not a happy woman, but I did not mistreat her if that’s what you’re asking.” Henry Basketville leaned against his desk, and took a deep swallow from his glass. “Who knows the ways of the supernatural though? It is possible that we are being both haunted, AND plagued by clever thieves.”

“That is true.” Sherlock agreed. “I need precise information though - things that were moved or taken, and any odd occurrences that happened and who saw them.”

“It’s usually the private rooms of the house, never the big public rooms where things happen.” Lady Basketville chimed in. “We’ve had so many troubles at the nursery that we’ve had a hard time keeping a nanny in for our two wee ones.” 

“How old are your children, Lady Basketville?” John asked, turning toward her.

“They are infants yet – my son Phillip is just six months, and the other, my daughter Rosamund, is a year and a half. I fear how they will fare once they understand the tales and goings-on at the hall. Their young minds are certainly more important than fickle servants, though how we will get through a house party without a cook is beyond me at the moment.”

“My dear, contact your sister. I’m certain she could be persuaded to lend us her cook just for the week, and if these gentlemen are as good at solving troubles as I’ve heard, then we may not have a problem hiring servants again.” 

“I’ll need a list.” Sherlock said briskly. “If you can make as accurate a list as possible of what was taken, when and where, and all ‘unnatural’ events at the hall, I can start my investigation. One question though, have you had a lot of money, and expensive items go missing?”

“That’s one of the odd things of it – no.” Henry shook his head. “It’s small things that disappear, nothing of consequence. We suspected light-fingered servants at first, but even after firing the most likely culprits, it continued. This room has been hardest hit, all my pens, and knick knacks have walked off despite leaving this room locked, and under a spell that keeps all but myself and Lady Basketville barred when we are absent. These three statues are one of the few things I can keep in my study, and only after I had them glued to the shelves they sit on.” He waved to the statues that John had noticed earlier. They did indeed look a bit lonely on the shelves by themselves.

“Curious. What needs do spirits have for such household items?” Sherlock mused.

“My thoughts exactly.” Lord Basketville beamed, fancying himself somewhat as clever as the man he had asked to help him.

“I assume I have leave to move freely about the house as needed?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“Certainly, sir.” Henry spread his hands. “My domain is at your command. We only ask that you keep your search discreet so as not to stir any more ill will with either the remaining staff or our guests. Lily and I will have a list for you tomorrow of the 'hauntings' that have gone on here. My undying gratitude will of course follow your solving our troubles, but if there is any monetary compensation I can also make . . .” 

“I have a charity, Lord Basketville, _Henry_ , that helps orphanages in Delphium.” Sherlock leaned in slightly. “If you would make a donation to the cause after the completion of our investigation, I will consider our ledger balanced.”

“Consider it done.” Henry Basketville nodded.

“Excellent. Now I need to talk to your cook before she gets away.” Sherlock declared upon rising.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigating ghosts is busy, busy work.

~ o ~

Mrs. Baxter, a middle-aged woman who had until that evening worked as the cook at Basketville hall, very reluctantly allowed herself to be taken from packing her bags, and returned to the kitchen to describe what she had seen. It was only by way of the gold coin that Sherlock slipped her with the promise of two more following her exposition that she finally agreed. 

“Now in your own way, please describe exactly what happened earlier this evening.” Sherlock said, stepping back to lean against the sinks, allowing the woman room to expound. 

The recent cook seemed to be a born storyteller, swelling up with the pleasure of having an audience for her tale. Sherlock and John, along with Lord and Lady Basketville, two serving lads as well as the three kitchen girls all waited in thrall to hear what she had to say.

“I was done with the starters, see” The woman began. “We’d decided on the puff pastry, and the stuffed mushroom caps, and I was checking on the fish filets, and the braised partridge. I was all alone in the kitchen at that point, Grace and Sarah had gone to the back pantry to fetch more pepper and sugar, when I turned and saw it plain as day, a specter from the depths of hell! It scrabbled over to the table as clear as you or me, reached out its hand, and the whole table shook by its command.” 

All eyes turned to the center table with its basket of apples, and cutting boards, and any number of dirty pans piled up on it awaiting cleaning. It seemed quite stable now.

“What did it look like exactly?” Sherlock pressed.

“It was horrible! An unnatural thing, hunched over, and covered with flowing white spirit matter, and its face, oh its face was a hideous thing all twisted.” She seemed utterly spellbound by her own telling, her eyes wide, and her breathing fast as she waved her hands around to demonstrate the ghastliness of her otherworldly vision.

“What happened next, Mrs. Baxter?” John asked her gently. 

“Well, I passed out good and proper on the floor, didn’t I? When I come to, I was on the couch in the servants’ quarters with ice on me head. It’s the curse of the hall, I tell you. Now that I’ve seen the ghost, I’ll not stick around to be its next victim to die.” She made the sign of the triple godhead to ward off bad luck, quickly touching her forehead, breast, and mouth in turn.

“And have many died here at Basketville Hall?” Sherlock demanded. “After seeing a ghost?”

“Well, no.” The woman admitted grudgingly. “But it’s common knowledge. If you hear an owl call three nights in a row, or you see a black dog with glowing eyes, or you meet a specter face to face, well, then someone in the household is soon to die.”

“This seems like circumstantial evidence at best, and foolish fairytale at worst.” Sherlock scoffed.

“Well, my good sir, you’re welcome to believe as you will.” The woman stood taller, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her. “Myself, I know that I’ll be happy to find work elsewhere. Now if you’ll pay me what’s waiting, I’ll be on my way.” 

Satisfied that they had gotten all the information that they might out of Mrs. Baxter, Sherlock paid the woman her money, and allowed her to continue with her imminent departure from Basketville Hall. Lord Basketville returned to their guests, leaving Lady Basketville to organize the questioning of the other servants. Once it was confirmed that no one else had seen anything unusual in the kitchen that night beyond Cook lying stretched out cold on the floor, she sent them back to work, and rejoined her husband upstairs.

“Sherlock, shall I?” John asked tilting his head toward the door where the cook had left. “I should go check on the cook before she leaves, make sure she’s all right.” 

“Yes, go ahead.” Sherlock waved him on. “She may have more to say in private anyway.” 

“She might also have hurt herself with her fall.” John chided, but Sherlock was already off and prowling around the kitchen peering behind bins and pots, tapping, and sniffing at things as he was wont to do when on a fact-finding mission.

John asked one of the kitchen staff, Sarah, if she could please lead him to cook’s room. Tight-lipped, the girl led them through the servant’s quarters to what was obviously Mrs. Baxter’s. He found the door to her room ajar giving a clear view of the woman latching a large case closed on her bed. 

“Ma’am?” John rapped on the door frame. “Can I speak to you for a moment?” 

The woman straightened, and sniffed deeply. “Sir. I told the master and missus all I knew already.” She clucked. “I don’t have any more to say about the matter. I’ll not be changing my mind about staying.” 

“No, I agree, if you fear for your safety, you should definitely be going.” John smiled kindly at her. “I’m a healer though. With your permission, I thought I might do a scan on you – see if I can help with any hurts you might have sustained on your fall. Sarah can stay as a witness.” He gestured back to the girl hovering behind him.

“Ah, all right, then.” Mrs. Baxter visibly relaxed. “I did take quite a crack to me noggin.” She said running a hand along the back of her head. 

“Here, let’s take a look at you. I’m sure I can help.” John moved closer, waiting until cook had seated herself in the room’s one small wooden chair. Sarah drifted in to lean against the doorway to watch, interested despite herself. 

“Just relax.” John told Mrs. Baxter coming to stand behind her, placing a hand lightly to either side of her head at the temples. “It might help if you close your eyes, though it isn’t necessary.” 

John closed his own eyes, and let his senses settle into the woman before him. By the gasp of the girl who had come to sit on the bed to watch, he knew a bright glow was filling the room from beneath his hands.

The woman’s body thrummed with the agitation of the day, but that was to be expected. John calmed her with a small “be well” sending, and felt her relax as he looked for recent injuries. He found the swelling at the back of her head, shoulder and hip where she had obviously fallen to the stone floor, as well as the burns and cuts about her hands that kitchen servants always seemed to sport. Nothing too major he though. With a practiced touch, he soothed her hurts, even adding a bit of healing to the beginnings of arthritis throughout her body.

When John pulled back into his own mind and came around to face her, the cook was smiling warmly. Sarah was leaning so far off the bed toward them with eyes gone wide, it looked as if she might tumble off at any moment.

“Oh, I thankee, healer. That was brilliant.” Mrs. Baxter flexed her fingers, and wiggled her feet. “ I feel like a young girl again, I do. I need a touch-up more often.”

“You’re quite welcome.” John smiled. “Hasn’t Lord Basketville had a healer in to see the staff, or let you visit one in town?” His eyes flickered back and forth between the two servants.

“It’s up to us to pay the fees if we see a healer,” The woman confided darkly, “and few of us have the extra to spare for little things." 

“His Lordship said it was hardly worth it to bring a healer in if so many of us were about to scarper off at a moment’s notice.” The kitchen girl confided, looking instantly guilty at her indiscretion.

“Well, that’s just terrible.” John straightened up further. “I’ll have a talk with Lord Basketville. Basic healthcare should be available to all his employees.”

“Well, it weren’t always so bad here.” Mrs. Baxter confided. "Before the Missus died, the first Lady Basketville, we used to have a healer in when she was in poor health. He’d see the staff once the Lady was looked after, but then the master had some falling out with him, and he stopped coming round. Shame that." She shook her head.

“How long have you worked here, Mrs. Baxter?” John asked, wrinkling his brow.

“Well now, well on twelve years, I reckon.” The cook said thoughtfully. "I’m one of the last of the old ones to go. The Hall has always been a gloomy pile of rocks, mind, and we used to hear some odd noises even before the first Mistress died. No one ever saw anything evil though. It was mostly just good fun joking about the spooks of Basketville hall. 

After the first Lady passed though, that’s when all the big troubles started - things moving and going missing, terrible sounds at night. Folks said the Lady never left the manor, tortured as she was about all the babes she lost here. She only carried one to term, and that one didn’t live past a day. Poor dear. Whatever it was I saw in the kitchen tonight – the Lady, or her wee dead babes, or something else crawled from the pits of hells, well, that’s enough for me.” She shivered and made the triple sign of blessing over herself again. When she looked over to the girl on the bed, her face softened. “I’m sorry Sarah, dear, to leave you all like this.” 

“It’s all right.” Sarah said twisting her hands in her skirts. “Way I see it, I’m too young to be the next to die.” She lifted her chin bravely with that. 

“Yes, that must be so.” John agreed kindly. “And how long have you worked here Miss Sarah?” 

“Only six months, and my Ma was so proud when I was chosen. I daren’t leave now.” She confided. “I was warned about the spooks, but I promised Ma I wouldn’t let it bother me. We had a haunted mill down the way from our house, and I always thought if you don’t bother the spirits, they won’t bother you.” 

“Well, until they start stealing, and all the maids get the sack.” Mrs. Baxter grumbled. 

A knock at the open door turned their heads. One of the footmen stood in the doorway. “Pardon me, ma’am, we’ve the carriage ready for to take you into town.” 

“Thankee Timmy.” The cook looked around the room making a final check that she had all her meager belongings packed to leave. “Well, I wish ye the best of it, sir, and I thankee for the healing.” She nodded at John, and with a final pat to Sarah’s shoulder, she was off.

 

~ o ~

 

When John made it back to the kitchen, Sherlock was still investigating, prowling about the various cupboards, and storerooms to poke and prod. John was used to seeing Sherlock in search mode, and simply pulled out a stool at the main table, waiting for Sherlock to come to some conclusion.

“Anything good?” John asked when Sherlock had finally rejoined him, a puzzled look on his face.

“Nothing conclusive.” Sherlock admitted with a sigh. Too many people have come through and muddying the trail with the dinner preparations. I fear we’ll have to interview others who have seen a specter here once we get that list of sightings from Lord Basketville tomorrow. What did you find out from the cook?”

“Only that Lord Basketville doesn’t treat his servants very well. I wouldn’t be surprised if some pranksters were getting back at him.” John scratched the back of his head. “The cook did say that there were some odd noises about the manor before the first Lady Basketville died, but much more goings-on after.”

“Yes, that does seem to be the going tale.” Sherlock agreed.

“So, what now, my great sleuth?” John asked. 

“Now, we go back and play hearts, and Parcheesi, and whatever other terrible gentle pursuits await us with the others.” 

“We do?” 

“We do. We still have the cheese sandwich to watch, and we might be able to gather information about haunting in the manor from guests who have stayed here before.”

“Of course.” John agreed. “Lead on, my good man.”

 

~ o ~

John woke to full light streaming in between the bedroom curtains. He was pleased to see his husband sleeping peacefully next to him. His relaxed face looked so sweet under his tangle of curls spread out over his pillow. John leaned in to pull a deep inhalation of sleepy Sherlock into his lungs. Delicious. 

They had returned last night to the parlour for a long night of gaming. Card games at tables set around the room, and a room next door with billiards had entertained much of the guests late into the night. John had stayed up as long as he could, partnering one of the Summerset Ladies, Ada, in a game of Whist as they lost spectacularly to her wife, the Lady Sharon, and husband Lord Colin Summerset. When the lovely ladies had yawned, the Summersets declared their plans to retire for the evening, and thanking John for a fun game, had headed off to bed. John had drifted over next door where his husband was playing a rather cut-throat game of poker with Victor Trevor, Lord Basketville, Antoine Croque, and a few other wheelers and dealers in the billiards room. John had patted his love’s arm and whispered his intentions to head off to bed as well.

“I think I’ll stay up, if you don’t mind.” Sherlock murmured back, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his hand of cards.

“No, no, be my guest. Win us enough loot to throw a party.” John smiled. Since the stakes were only a pile of wrapped sweets, John didn’t feel too badly about leaving his husband to the tender mercies of the many card sharks gathered. 

“I’ll see you later.” Sherlock had turned then, and pulled him down to kiss him good-night full on the lips, something he hardly ever did in courtly company. They were always maintaining polite facades in public. John waved good naturedly to the catcalls that followed. 

“All right, Bunny, stop trying to distract us all with your high jinks.” Victor called out, a small cigar caught between his teeth. 

“You must have a terrible hand to play if that throws off your game, and stop calling me that.” Sherlock glared.

“All right, William, put up or shut up.” Victor sneered, and placed his straight on the table. 

“Good night, love." John had squeezed Sherlock’s arm a last time, and made his way out of the room to the incredulous cries of the players at Sherlock’s winning hand of a royal flush.

 

~ o ~

 

John nudged his Royal Highness’s shoulder, but Sherlock only snuffled a bit and rolled his face deeper into his pillow. Poor thing. He’d probably only come to bed a few hours ago. He looked so sweet when he was out cold like this – his full mouth slightly parted, those slanted eyes looking even more tilted when closed. It gave him a slightly elvish look. Much as he would have liked to wake his husband for a morning tussle, John left Sherlock to his rest, quitting the bed for a quick wash-up, and some simple clothes before leaving on a search for sustenance. A servant had shown him back to his quarters the night before, but now he was on his own to navigate the long, un-peopled corridors to find the main rooms downstairs. The gloom of the manor must be getting to him he mused, as he couldn’t help imagining unseen eyes watching him from every shadowy corner and turn. John shook his head slightly, chiding himself, a grown man, for such childish thoughts. 

Still, he was relieved though when he finally reached the better-lit ground floor. It was the aroma of cooked food that drew him to the right spot this time. Following his nose brought him to a small dining room set round with covered dishes obviously left as a buffet for guests as they straggled down. Most of the aristocracy were allergic to mornings after all, and an ongoing buffet would take the place of the first two usual daily meals for most. The room offered a few small empty tables next to the stocked sideboards, but through a connecting door, John spied a glassed-in porch beyond that held a number of extra tables, and a few people actually sat at them. With the welcome light of a sunny day illuminating it, the space looked quite inviting.

“Can I get you some fresh tea, sir?” an actual maid young enough to still have spots appeared to ask John as he poked around under the covered dishes. 

“Yes, thank you, that would be lovely.” John agreed. Sadly, like the dinner the night before, much of the food out was badly done, dried-out eggs, burned bacon, and lumpy porridge. John managed to find some baked goods that didn’t look too bad, and he loaded up a plate to join those already on the porch.

Lady Kitty sat alone at one table nibbling at a roll, while a few others he didn’t know sat at a farther table. John nodded amiably to all, bowing deeper when he reached Kitty. “Good morning, Lady Kitty, do you mind if I join you?” 

“John! I should be most disappointed if you didn’t.” Kitty smiled broadly up at him. She was looking quite lovely and fresh-faced that morning in a simple flowered frock, her hair pulled back in a loose bun. “It really is tiresome keeping country hours.” Kitty confided as John settled in next to her. “I’m just not used to staying up all hours and rising past noon. I’m afraid it’s just me and the grannies up with the sun here.” She tipped her head towards the two older women dining across the room. 

“Well, that and the employed folk.” John agreed. “I have to plead workman’s hours myself. I’m up before the sun most days to make it in to the Healers Sanctuary on time.” He glanced up as the maid crossed the room to leave a pot of tea and cup at John’s arm. “Ta.” He said, and she dropped into a curtsy before departing.

“How wonderful.” Kitty sighed, touching John’s arm . “It must be lovely to have something useful to do with yourself that truly matters.” 

“Well, it has its good and bad days.” John mused, “But I do enjoy the work I do there.”

“Tell me about your most barmy patients.” Kitty said, her eyes lighting up. “I’m sure you have many fine tales to tell.” 

“Well, there was the time . . .” Soon John was off and running finding Kitty to be a very appreciative ear. “ . . . and when the woman stood up, lo and behold, the hamster fell out of her skirts.” Kitty laughed at the story, and John found himself chucking along with her. 

“It was days before we got the creature out of the examining room. One of the other healers finally set out a plate of biscuits, and we managed to catch it when it came out to nibble on the gingerbread.” He grinned as he finished. 

“Not that old yarn again?” A familiar deep voice drawled from behind John, and he glanced over to find Sherlock decked out in his most frippered of frippery standing beside his chair. His words were disapproving, but the twinkle in his eye was anything but. 

“It’s a good story.” John said in mock reproach, folding his arms. “That’s why I have to find new ears to tell it.”

“Indeed, I enjoyed all your tales this morning, John.” Kitty said leaning in, casting a sharp glance Sherlock's way. “Sometimes those closest see us so often, they forget to appreciate us.”

John could see that Kitty couldn’t tell how much of their exchange had been in jest, and was thinking of her own recent unhappy marriage. He reached over to give her arm a reassuring squeeze. “What is that phrase ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder?’”

“I always took that to mean you didn’t much like the person to begin with.” Sherlock quipped, seating himself at John’s other side, spreading the coat tails of his hunter green jacket as he settled.

“Thankfully no one here falls into that category.” John said quickly to head off any misunderstandings that might be brewing. “Love, did you get anything to eat? There’s a whole buffet next door.” 

“Not hungry.” Sherlock said shortly. “Just tea.” He punctuated his words by waving at a servant that happened to be passing by, making his request of beverage to the girl as she neared. 

“Well, it’s grand to see you at the crack of . . . what it must be on to noon by now. You look splendid, Your Grace.” John smiled as he let his eyes rake over Sherlock’s excessively frilled outfit. 

“Goodson arrived last night.” Sherlock confirmed off handedly. “He was able to turn me out quickly today.” Sherlock accepted his tea from the servant when it arrived, reaching over to snag the half a scone on John’s plate that he had neglected to finish.

“You look quite stylish, Your Highness.” Kitty agreed, seeming somewhat mollified at the fond smile John had thrown Sherlock as he watched him eat his purloined bake.

“Yes, well for the money we pay him, he should be good. Though a skilled tailor helps as well.” 

“Yes, a good tailor or seamstress is a godsend.” Kitty agreed avidly. “One always puts one's best foot forward when fashionably dressed. In fact Lady Basketville has offered to take a number of ladies into town this afternoon to visit her favorite milliner. She has the most cunning toppers for hats. Lily, Lady Basketville that is, showed us several of the ones she already owns. One was the sweetest thing, like a baby bird in a nest . . .” Kitty carried on describing several of Lady Basketville’s most attractive hats before Sherlock leaned in to interrupt her.

“Yes, well that is definitely worth a trip to town.” Sherlock agreed. “Pray, don’t let us keep you from your outing, Lady Riley.”

“Yes, of course.” Kitty said blushing slightly. “I don’t wish to be late for leaving. If you gentlemen will excuse me.”

The two men rose slightly as they bid Kitty Riley farewell. She bustled off, telling John again how much she had enjoyed talking with him before making her way out of the room. 

“John, how do you stand it?” Sherlock sighed as soon as they had resettled in their seats, Kitty’s skirts disappearing around the door frame. “Talking nonsense with all these people?” He shivered as if talking with people was somewhat on par with swimming nude in ice cold water with polar bears. “I’m not sure I can last another day much less the rest of a week.” 

“Oh, love. I think you need to pace yourself more. Kitty’s not so bad. I feel sorry for her.” John drained the last of the tea from his cup. “She was forced into an arranged marriage by her family to a man three times her age. Now that she’s freed from the bond by his death, she deserves to get out and have a little fun. I think we both know how unfair enforced marriages can be.”

Sherlock gave a snort as he sipped from his own cup, but John knew it was an eloquent snort that held volumes of understanding. The restrictive codes of the upper class had almost prevented the two of them from marrying. John tried not to take their status of husbands for granted at any point. He reached under the table and ran a questing hand up Sherlock’s inner thigh.

“I love when you wear ruffles. It makes unwrapping you so much more fun.” He dropped his voice to a husky rumble, and leaned in to breathe over Sherlock’s ear. “Are we busy today? Maybe we could retire . . . for a _rest_ , and I could get you out of these lovely things?” 

Sherlock looked ready to agree wholeheartedly with John’s back-to-bed proposal when Lord Basketville appeared at their table. 

“Gentlemen, have you broken your fast? If you could spare a moment to meet me in my study, I have that list we spoke of yesterday.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat before answering the man. “Of course, Lord Basketville, Henry. That will be most helpful.”

John clenched his jaw, and swore slightly under his breath. Sometimes sleuthing was incredibly ill timed. 

“That is if John is finished eating?” Sherlock glanced back at him. One look at the delighted glow slipping over his husband’s face at the lure of a new puzzle, and John sighed. “Yes, of course. We’re just finished here.” He turning a forced little smile toward the lord of the manor.

“Excellent.” Lord Basketville exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “This way, gentlemen.”

~ o ~

The list Lord Basketville produced of “unnatural” occurrences around the manor only covered the last few years, and the dates given had been sketchy, but Sherlock ran his eyes over it with a pleased nod. Sadly a number of servants who had reported actually seeing a haunt had been let go, but several of the stable hands still employed appeared to have encountered something spectral on more than one occasion.

“I have one question.” Sherlock glanced back at Lord Basketville. “Are there any secret routes in the manor, hidden passageways that connect any of the rooms?”

“Well, they aren’t a secret, but there are of course back stairways for the servants to use throughout the house.” Henry said with a shrug. “We did have a few had a few of them sealed off though years ago. Eleanor, my first wife, said she didn’t like the idea of servants creeping around into her private areas.”

“Do you have a plan of the building?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow.

“That I do, sir.” Henry said, rising to open a cupboard to the side. After rummaging a few minutes, he returned with a schemata of the house. They spread the blue prints over the Lord Basketville’s large desk. Sherlock pointed out several areas asking which passageways had been sealed. After a few minutes, Sherlock nodded and stepped away. “I assure you, Lord Basketville, we will have your mystery solved by the end of the week. We’ll speak to the servants who have seen the ghost firsthand with your permission.” 

“Of course, of course. As long as you’re discreet. I wouldn’t want our guests disturbed.” Henry cautioned.

“We’ll be the souls of discretion.” Sherlock assured Lord Basketville, and with a smile as he neatly pocketed the list of sightings to all but drag John from the manor, and out toward the stables.

It was a glorious autumn day warmed by that honeyed light that only comes when the Earth is poised between the excess of summer and the barren chill of winter. Slanting rays illuminated the leaves just turning into their saucy show of bright reds, and yellows. Nature was such a show-off when she wanted to be. Sherlock marched toward the stables with a single-minded focus completely ignoring the splendor of the gardens around them, but John pulled on his arm to stop his progress, steering him behind a bush.

“Hold on there, General. What’s going on then? What are we dealing with? Spill!” 

Sherlock blinked several times before finally focusing his gaze directly on John’s face. “I’m sorry, John. I get caught up.” He waved his hand around the general vicinity of his head indicating any number of jumbled thoughts that ruled his mind when a case was on. 

“I know.” John said more softly. “So tell me. What do you think about all this?”

“For starters, I doubt there’s truly a ghost at Basketville Hall. If it were just sightings, it might be so, but too many things have gone missing or been moved for it not to be by human hands. No, we’re looking for a person or persons who have some reason to be causing the Basketville family mischief. I believe the servant passages in the manor explain how things have been done, now we just need the why. 

“You think the stable hands know something?”

“They may. Certainly anyone who’s been here longer will have more information on the goings-on at the estate, and there's been few changes in the stables. With such a turn-over of staff in the main house, there's any number of disgruntled servants who might have a reason to retaliate against Lord Basketville.” 

“So what’s the plan here?” John asked wrinkling his brow.

“I’ll cause a distraction, get the stable master involved as I check on the conditions of our horses, and drivers. You’ll be free to ask the stable hands more about the manor, and the ghost sightings.”

“Oh, all subtle-like, hmmm? ” 

“I trust your judgement. You’re better at putting people at ease than I am. Watch for what they don’t say as much as what they do say.”

“Yes, speaking of not saying things . . . _Bunny_?” John pushed a finger into Sherlock’s chest, punctuating each word with a definitive tap. “Did it not occur to you once to mention that Victor Trevor used to call you BUNNY?” He stepped back to cross his arms defensively over his chest. “Of all the things to not tell me.” 

“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s gaze and shoulders both collapsed downward. “I didn’t mean to keep something secret. It’s just . . . Victor was a part of my crazy years. Honestly I just wanted to pack the whole business away, and not look at any of it. It’s not a time I like to revisit.” Sherlock raised eyes gone pale grey to John’s face. “I hope you can forgive me.”

“Forgive . . .” John’s ire evaporated as he saw how upset Sherlock had become. He reached out to grasp him by the upper arms. “Love, no, it isn’t that big of a deal.” 

Sherlock looked surprised at John’s easy capitulation, and John groaned pulling his husband in, winding his arms around him. Sometimes he forgot how deeply Sherlock took things. Sherlock sighed as his arms came up to embrace John as well. 

“I suppose forgetting Victor wasn't exactly cricket either though - he really isn’t all bad once you get to know him.” Sherlock spoke in a voice muffled against John’s hair. 

“No. Stop while you’re ahead.” John warned giving him a squeeze. “I don’t want to discuss the good qualities, short though the list might be, about Victor sodding Trevor right now.” John hated playing the typical jealous spouse, but the few times that they’d run into Lord Trevor at parties over the years, John had bristled from the predatory gleam the man had cast Sherlock’s way. He’d be thrice damned before he’d let someone who once helped Sherlock along a spiral of self-destruction come cozying up now. 

Sherlock nodded, maintaining silence as ordered. 

John sighed “I love you, you know.” He gave Sherlock’s arse a friendly pat before they stepped apart 

“I love you too, John. You know that don’t you?” Sherlock seemed oddly intense for a moment.

“Yes, of course. Always.” John pulled Sherlock down for a quick kiss. His mouth was sweet and warm, but work called. “Come on, love, let’s catch a ghost.” John smiled, and Sherlock grinned back.

 

~ o ~

The stables were dark and close after the dazzling light of the autumn day outside, and it took a moment for their eyes to adjust. John could smell animal, and the bright scent of fresh hay alongside it. It was definitely a well-tended stable. Amidst the soft nickers of horses at rest, footsteps padded toward them resolving into a boy with a rake in his hand. 

“Can I ‘elp you gentlemen?” He asked politely tugging at his cap.

“Indeed my good lad. Would you be so kind as to fetch the stable master? I wish to consult with him about the treatment of my royal horses.” Sherlock had thrown on his persona of the rich, bored noble as another might toss on a scarf, and the boy dipped immediately into a bow before scurrying off to comply. 

John had to smile. Sherlock was gorgeous whether dressed as a dock worker, or decked out in his poshest finery, but today he looked every inch the royal son posed so incongruently against the lowly backdrop of a stable. Sherlock broke character long enough to wink at John, then turned back to his haughty stance. When the stable master arrived, all bows and scrapes, Sherlock led him off toward their horses with a loud diatribe about the chestnut gelding with the tetchy stomach who required his oats cooked, and the bay with the weak leg that needed tending.

John hung back in the shadows until they had moved safely on. He looked around at the lines of stalls, and tack on the walls, and took a deep breath. It was a pleasant place to be, and he wandered along the nearest row, visiting the horses, reaching out to pet noses that came his way. He paused when he neared an impressive black specimen with a splendid mane.

“Best be careful of that one, mate. That’s Demon. He bites.” John looked over at the young man who had drawn near to stand beside him. 

“This beauty?” John pointed to the lovely black stallion tossing his head and rolling his eyes at being talked about. Reminded him of someone he thought with a chuckle. 

“Yes, he’s a headstrong one, he is. Not good with strangers either.” The young man nodded. 

“Ah, I’ll stay back then.” John agreed watching as the servant moved closer to the stall, pulling something from his back pocket. 

“Sometimes you can settle him down with a sweet though.” The man gestured with an apple core he had obviously saved from his own lunch. He pulled himself easily up on to the gate to hang over, and offer the treat to the stallion.

The young man was thin and wiry, and completely unafraid as he clicked soothingly at the snorting horse. He suddenly reminded John sharply of someone he’d known once. He’d been green as wood when he’d first met David, a stable boy working at the Dullenshire Inn. David had been three years older, and something of a God in John’s impressionable eyes. He’d been a good friend when he'd needed one - well perhaps a little more than a friend to be truthful. It has been a tragedy on top of a tragedy when David had perished during the Fever Plague that had devastated half of Dullenshire – had it been ten years ago already? He hadn’t thought of David in an age. It made him feel old to think how Dave would never be turning grey, never grow slower in his step, but remain caught forever in time as that laughing, fearless boy with sunshine in his hair.

John shook his head to clear the cobwebs. The young man before him had soothed the stallion, and was stroking his forelock as the horse sniffed at the apple core offered on his flat palm. The stallion lipped at the fruit coyly, before munching down on it with obvious relish. They man patted the horse a final time, whispering something to his ear that made him whinny as if laughing. With a graceful twist, the stable hand pushed off the gate to land on his feet beside John. He wiped his palms on his trousers before offering one to shake. 

“Jonathan Brown at your service.” He said.

“John Watson-Holmes at yours.” John laughed taking his outstretched hand. He had so many different titles these days, it was refreshing to simply dispense with them all. “Do they call you ‘Johnny’ by any chance?” 

“All the time.” Jonathan mock sighed. “And you?”

“Only my sister these days.” John admitted with a half smile. “That’s quite a gift you’ve got there, with the horses.” He nodded back toward the stallion who had calmed remarkably.

The boy blushed and ducked his head looking suddenly even younger. “I’m good with horses.” He said simply. 

“Have you worked here long?” John asked. 

“Well on five years now.” Jonathan said, scratching the back of his neck. “Was there something you needed . . . sir?” He’d gotten a better look at John’s clothes, and obviously not sure about his status, had reverted to the polite servant. 

John felt a self-conscious blush creep up his neck, being lumped in with the nobles whiling away the week at the manor. “No, nothing really. I just had a few free minutes, and I was admiring the horses. They really are lovely.” 

“Oh you should see this one.” Jonathan led him over to a roan mare in the corner. “This is Phoenix. She’s a sweetheart, but smart as a whip. She’s fine at meeting new folks. Come here, girl.” He whistled quietly, and the horse moved over obligingly to hang her head down to be stroked. 

“She is splendid.” John agreed, reaching up to run his hand over her soft nose. “I’m curious, you’ve been here longer than most of the staff I’ve met here so far. You must not be afraid of ghosts.” 

“No, not a bit.” Jonathan chuckled, scratching the mare behind an ear. 

“I hear the cook left last night when she saw a haunt.” John ventured, turning to face the man. 

“Well, there’s a lot that goes on at the big house that doesn’t bother us in the stables.” Jonathan said reaching up to shove his cap farther back on his head. “I’ve seen plenty of ghosts.” He admitted, “Here, and back at home. Way I see it, you leave them alone, and they’ll leave you alone.” 

“So the stables are as haunted as the main house?” John asked raising an eyebrow. 

“As haunted as the day is long.” The young man smiled wide revealing a charming gap between his front two teeth. 

“Tell me.” John smiled back. “I love a good ghost story.” 

“There’s not much to tell.” Jonathan shrugged eloquently. “At least once a month, we see a spirit moving around the stables late at night, visiting the horses. It doesn’t do any harm, and it doesn’t upset the beasties.”

“So the other stable hands have seen ghosts too?” John asked as nonchalantly as possible.

“Yep. Generally a bloke will see something after a night of drinking, but I’ve run into it other times too. I suppose I hang about here more than most. I like it late at night when things are quiet. If I can’t sleep, I’ll come visit the horses. They settle me.”

“Ah.” John nodded encouragingly. 

“ I think it’s just the one ghost though.” The man continued. “I’ve only seen the one figure, small thing, moves funny like its gait isn’t quite right. Never got a real close look though. It’s skittish. If you get too close, it disappears.”

“I suppose ghosts do tend to be shy.” John agreed.

A commotion at the end of the row ended the conversation as they watched Sherlock and the stable master returning from the area next door. 

“Yes, well, see that warm stones are set in the stalls at every hour, and they should be fine.” Sherlock ordered the man airily. 

“Yes, Your Highness. Of course. I’ll see to it.” The man trotted along trying to keep up with Sherlock’s impossibly long legs. His head whipped around sharply though when he spied John and his friend before him. “Ere now, Johnny. What are you doing lazing about? We’ve got feed to move.” The man frowned at them. 

“John.” Sherlock merely raised eyebrows at him.

“Please, don’t hold him at fault.” John looked briefly at the stable boy, smiling as he stepped forward to hold up a palm in supplication to the stable master. “Jonathan was very generously giving me a tour of your stables. You’ve a fine set of animals here. Thank you, sir, for your time, I appreciated it.” John turned to nod at the young man only to see that another blush had crept over his cheeks at having woefully underestimated John’s status.

“Yes, sir.” Jonathan looked down as he tugged his cap off to hold between his hands.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he looked back and forth between John and his namesake obviously drawing many conclusions, but John merely smiled widely back at him. _It’s fine, love, no worries._

Sherlock nodded slightly as he stepped forward, and fishing into a pocket drew out a gold coin that he flipped neatly into the air to land in the straw next to the young man’s feet. “I thank you for entertaining the Royal Consort in my absence.” 

The boy mumbled something close to thank you, eyes fixed to the ground. 

“Come, John, we have things to see, and people to do.” Sherlock turned and flounced imperiously toward the exit.

“Of course.” John smiled tightly before turning back towards the dumbfounded young man. “Thank you, really.” He said before allowing himself to be swept along in Sherlock’s wake into the blaze of sunlight outside.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caution: poking around dark places may stir up hornets.

~ o ~

 

John stifled a yawn. A neighbor of the Basketvilles, a charming Miss Hyacinth Loverage was performing opera selections accompanied by her sister on the pianoforte in the large yellow music room of Basketville Hall. John was stuck in the second row pretending to enjoy listening to it. It was fine. He was certain the concert was fine, but it just wasn’t his sort of music, and he was fighting the urge to simply close his eyes and nod off. Monsieur Antoine Croque was sat in the seat in front of him, and John, who had been faithfully tailing him most of the day, was here for this reason.

It had been an afternoon of “hurry up and wait” for John – a predicament that any solider was familiar with, but John was ready for a break. After leaving the stables, he and Sherlock had encountered a number of guests outside taking advantage of the spot of good weather. When Sherlock had spied M. Croque wandering about the grounds, he’d tasked John with tagging after him. 

~ o ~

“John, I want to study the connecting passages in the manor more closely, but it will be a dull business for the most part.” Sherlock waved a negligent hand toward the house in question. “Why don’t you keep an eye on the cheese sandwich. If Mycroft thinks he’s passing secrets, a record of who he spends time with here will be useful information.”

“Yeh, fine.” John agreed. “But you know you didn’t have to rip that boy down in there like that." John tipped his chin back toward the stables. "He was a good lad.” 

“I’m sure he was. I gave him a gold piece, didn’t I?" 

“That’s not the point, and you know it.”

Sherlock sighed. “John, we can’t befriend everyone we meet on a case. We have to maintain some distance.”

“You’re right.” John said, huffing out a breath.

“Did you get anything useful from him?”

“I did. He’s seen the ghost a number of times. He thinks there’s only the one, and it seems to enjoy visiting the horses, oh, and it walks with a limp.”

“Good man. Oh, look there’s the cheese sandwich on the move.” Sherlock nodded toward Antoine Croque who looked to be moving more purposefully toward the sculpted garden - all the while trying hard to appear not to. “He looks guilty already. Go follow.” 

“Aye, aye, love.” John grabbed a quick kiss from his husband before matching Croque’s ambling/not ambling pace, a few yards back. Truth be told, it was a lovely day and he would greatly prefer spending the afternoon out of doors rather than poking around the mouldering manor. It was difficult to keep Croque in view without looking as if he were tailing him though. John managed by strolling with his hands behind his back, stopping to lean over any late-blooming flowers as if engrossed in inspecting them whenever Croque glanced back.

Croque's destination looked to be a covered gazebo at the edge of the gardens near a wooded area, and John kept a careful eye on the man as he approached it. He managed to just catch the flash of bright pink skirts waiting for the Gallatian at the entrance before Croque and his companion moved father inside.

John blew out a breath, and found a bench under a beautifully reddened maple tree that gave him a clear view of the paths around the gazebo. From the giggles coming from inside the structure, he doubted much of national security was being threatened at the moment, but you never knew.

John was just wishing he’d managed to bring a book along when one of the Summerset ladies happened by. It was Lady Ada wandering along the path until she spied John. He face broke into a smile as she neared him. 

“Healer Watson-Holmes, how nice to see you. How are you?” 

“I’m well Lady Ada, and please, just John will do.” 

“Ah, well then Just Ada will do splendidly for me as well. Do you mind if I join you?”

“That would be delightful.” John said. “I was truly enjoying this fine weather, but starting to get a bit bored with my own company.”

“I know what you mean.” Lady Ada sighed, taking a seat on the bench next to John. “Both my spouses have gone on a shopping trip this afternoon, and I didn’t fancy going along. It’s the oddest thing. I could have sworn we had more handkerchiefs and stockings in our bags, but it seems we needed a few things once we unpacked.”

“Well, I am pleased to have you here to share this fine day.” John smiled.

“Thank you so much.” Ada said, a smile unfurling across her own lips. “You’d think I’d welcome a bit of quiet, but then when I get it, I find myself all at sixes and sevens with what to do with myself.” 

It turned out that the family had three children all under five staying with grandparents for the week. It also turned out that the lovely Lady Ada used to be just plain Ada Jones, shopgirl for a dressmaker before meeting the Summersets.

John smiled when she told him. “Don’t let it get around,” John said, dropping his voice as he leaned closer, “but I was set to pledge to a temple when Prince William met me.”

“Oh, you never.” Ada’s laugh was like a tinkle of bells, and John chuckled along with her. 

"I swear by all the Gods, it's true." John replied, holding a hand over his heart.

“Do you miss it?” Ada asked, tilting her head. “I thought that was serious stuff, pledging to a temple.” She seemed to realize instantly what she had said as her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, please don’t mind me. I don’t mean to pry.” 

“Not at all.” John said, pausing a few minutes to choose his words. “I think I ended up at the temple because I was running away from things. Meeting Sher . . . Prince William was the best thing that could have happened to me. He brought me back to the world. ” 

“You two are lovely together.” Ada agreed. “I hope you don’t mind if I pry further. I wanted to ask about your triad marriage, how you manage to juggle things. Tell me to shut it if I’m being nosy.” 

“We’re only supposed to talk about the weather at these things, aren’t we?” John answered with a wry smile. “Well, sod that. Ask away, but it isn’t actually a triad marriage, we’re a quad as Princess Irene has a partner as well. Though, we keep that private.”

It was a delight to talk with Ada, hearing about how a triad dealt with having children. Ada’s sense of humor gave John hope that he and Sherlock might yet have a hope of navigating the waters of marriage and parenting successfully. They’d had a very enlightening conversation by the time a slightly rumpled woman in a pink frock emerged from the gazebo at the end of the garden. John straightened at the movement watching the progress of the woman toward the manor, Lady Weatherall was her name he thought. Sherlock had made a point of introducing John to everyone at the party their first night in. 

“Ada, I do thank you for such a lovely conversation, but I believe I need to be getting back to the manor.” John said, preparing to move when Croque reemerged. 

“Oh, look how late it’s gotten.” Ada glanced about at the long shadows. “Getting a big chill too. I’m sure my lovelies are back by now. I’ll walk in with you.” 

“Please.” John said extending his arm for the Lady Ada to take. John maneuvered her leisurely along the path to a colourful patch of late-blooming flowers that allowed him to still keep an eye on the gazebo.

“Aren’t these just lovely?” John asked, bending down to give them a closer look as he waited for Croque’s reappearance. 

“Quite nice.” Ada agreed.

“But these.” John exclaimed pulling her over to another patch of plants. “These are something else, hmmm?” 

“ I believe that’s stinging nettle.” Ada said, biting her lip and trying not to laugh. “John, do you garden much?”

“No, unfortunately, living in the midst of Delphium has robbed me of that particular pleasure.” John admitted, reddening a bit about the ears. 

A drop of water fell on John’s sleeve with a plop. He held both hands out checking for more, and glanced up to see that a rather dark cloud had rolled in to mute the last of the afternoon light. 

“Ah well, good we enjoyed the nice weather while we could.” Ada sighed at the impending rain.

Unfortunately the single drop was soon followed by several of his friends. “Come on, let’s get inside before we get soaked.” John nudged Ada her toward the house. He had quickly decided that watching the movements of Antoine Croque was not more important than flirting with pneumonia.

As luck would have it though, M. Croque also decided to make a break for it before the storm hit in full force. He left the shelter of the gazebo to hurry along another path toward the main house. Curiously though, another figure, flushed by the rain, also peeled itself from the bushes by the gazebo to follow. A woman, slight, blonde haired, it was her John realized, that Mary Morstan. John watched fascinated as she hurried toward the manor. Oddly, the rain seemed to bounce off of her rather than hitting her head, as if she were in a bubble. Curious indeed.

“John, are you coming?” Ada called, breaking his musings. “The garden will still be here tomorrow, you know.” She laughed, moving up the path with her skirts gathered in her hands.

“Yes, of course, sorry.” John said, turning to quickly catch up with her.

 

~ o ~

 

M. Antoine Croque made a brief trip to his quarters, presumably to freshen up, a time when John walked up and down the corridor pretending to admire the wallpaper and gilded mirrors, ducking into a nearby open door as the diplomat re-emerged. 

“Oh, so sorry.” John said to the young maid who was tidying the bed there. "Wrong room.” He bobbed his head before dashing back to the hall to keep up with Croque. 

John was able to trail him unobserved to the conservatory where the Gallatian met up with yet another woman from the party. John was running out of things to admire hovering by the entrance to the room when the pair finally re-emerged looking flushed. This time his companion was the Lady FitzRoy, and John watched from a side corridor as they parted with a passionate kiss. John was admiring the man’s stamina as he trailed him as discreetly as possible to what turned out to be an afternoon concert in the music room. John was just starting to wonder if he might be able to nap with his eyes open when the final song drew to a close, and everyone burst into polite applause. 

Of course Sherlock swept into the room just as the tea and finger sandwiches were being served. “John, come with me, I’ve made some interesting discoveries I’d like you to see.” He rumbled next to John’s ear. 

“Yeh, all right.” John nodded. “Hang on a tick, though. I’m starving.”

Sherlock tapped his foot, but graciously allowed John a few minutes to fill a plate with small sandwiches and grab a cup of tea. They settled on some chairs set to the side, and watched the crowd as John ate. John decided to try an old trick. Rather than asking Sherlock if he were hungry, he simply handed him a small egg salad sandwich. Sure enough, Sherlock was so busy scanning the people around them, he nibbled at the food automatically without even thinking. John smiled fondly at him.

“Look at them all, John, mingling. It’s like a nest of ants, though at least the insects have some purpose to their movement.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, love. We aren’t that removed from the animal kingdom, are we? Grooming and posturing, it’s all part of creating allies, and establishing rank in the group.”

“Yes, no better than a pack of monkeys, I suppose.” Sherlock said, licking his fingers as he downed the last of his sandwich.

John’s eyes fell on Mary Morstan again as he chewed. She must have been at the back of the room, but had joined Croque at the refreshments table. She laughed loudly at something the Gallatian said, throwing her head back, but it sounded somewhat forced.

“And what of our Cheese Sandwich?” John asked, waving his own miniature cheese and pickle one in punctuation before popping it into his mouth. “Does it still need looking after today?”

The side of Sherlock’s mouth slid upward at John’s whimsy. “I think it will keep for a bit. I want to show you something.” 

John left his empty dishes on a side board, and followed an eager detective from the room to the hallway beyond. 

“This way.” Sherlock grinned over his shoulder, and led John quickly down the corridor to a small door that opened onto what looked like a narrow servants’ stairway. 

Sherlock grabbed a lantern he had obviously left hanging just inside, and held it aloft to light their way. If the rest of the manor was a dim and drafty place, this interior stairway was a journey into the belly of a whale. John stuck close to the lean form moving ahead of him, up and up, twisting ever upward. He wanted to ask questions, but had to save his breath for the climb. It seemed as if they might be ascending forever on this dark, creaky intestine of a stairway before Sherlock finally paused, opening the door into a dim corridor that seemed almost cheerful with a flickering sconce on the wall and fresher air. 

John could hear voices nearby, and Sherlock held a finger to his lips for silence. He led them across the hallway and in to a room that looked like a small parlour, obviously something private for the Basketvilles. Sherlock darted over to a panel beside the fireplace, and pushed on it until something clicked. A hidden door swung open, and Sherlock motioned for John to follow him into the space revealed. The door swung easily closed on silent hinges behind them.

“This is where the fun begins.” Sherlock whispered. 

“Yes but where does it end?” John asked with a smile.

“Come and see.” Sherlock chuckled. 

With that, Sherlock led John on a wild goose chase through much of the manor. They walked through narrow corridors squeezed between the inner walls of rooms, small places that seemed to have gone largely unknown by the inhabitants of the manor – though of course someone WAS making good use of them if it was true that no actual spirit was haunting Basketville Hall. Several places had small eye holes for observing the occupants in rooms, twice they popped out into a room when the corridor ended, an unused bedroom, and a small storage room, and crossed the space to hook up with another hidden passageway. “This place is an assassin’s wetdream.” Sherlock muttered at one point. “If they aren’t too portly.” John whispered back. The spaces were definitely narrow, and so low in some points that they had to crawl to continue forward. When they finally fetched up in the guest wing, they made their way quietly back to their own chamber. 

“Oh, love, what a find.” John took a deep breath as they shut the door behind them. “This place is simply riddled with secret corridors. How is it that Lord Basketville doesn’t know of them?”

“I’m certain the family knew of the passages when the house was first built, but over time the knowledge of them must have passed out of favour. Obviously though, someone is now using this to their advantage.”

“So who. . . Oh love, come here, you’ve cobwebs in your hair.” John reached out to brush some detritus from Sherlock’s dark curls, as Sherlock bent down obligingly to give him better access. 

“Who is using the corridors for stealing and harassing? It’s difficult to say at the moment.” Sherlock shrugged as he straightened, looking unfairly elegant despite the dust smudged across his face and fine clothes. “There are so many disgruntled servants from all the firings at the manor, angry in-laws from Basketville’s first marriage who might want revenge – who knows. I don’t believe I’ve uncovered the full network of hidden passageways, and I’ll need more facts before I can paint a full picture. Obviously though it’s someone slender who enjoys creeping about.” A smile tugged at Sherlock's full lips.

His eyes were so bright, he looked so on fire with his discovery that John couldn’t help himself. With a breathy laugh he gathered up the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket and hauled him in for a kiss. His love tasted so much of himself, a sweet spicy flavour that was like nothing else John could describe, but oh so familiar. The dance of lips and breath was also very familiar, but the first slip of Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth was no less welcome for being well-known. The adrenaline of their secret adventure, sneaking about the manor like little boys out past bedtime still fizzed in John’s blood, and the sweet kiss turned heated almost instantly. John realized that they’d fallen into something of a pattern lately in the bedroom. John would drag home exhausted, Sherlock would tempt him into some sport, and they’d pass out afterwards. He aimed to even up the score. 

“You naughty boy.” John growled. He slipped a leg between Sherlock’s thighs, as he reached around to cup his plush backside. “Just look what you’ve done to your good clothes.” John stretched up to mouth just under Sherlock’s jaw, a place guaranteed to make his love go weak in the knees. John was quite pleased when as expected, Sherlock melted against him, something like “Hnnng” spilling from his lips.

“You’ve made such a mess of yourself.” John continued in a husky voice right at Sherlock’s ear “We’re going to have to come up with a suitable punishment, yes?” He squeezed a healthy handful of Sherlock’s arse as he rocked his hips against him. The soft sound that Sherlock made at the back of his throat in answer sent heat straight to John’s cock. 

John didn’t have the patience for slow this time. He shoved Sherlock back against the door, and attacked his clothes, pulling away his neckcloth, and unbuttoning the top buttons so that he could scrape teeth over his collarbones. Sherlock slumped down the length of the door, letting his head fall back, putting them more on equal height, and John instantly pushed in. He bit at the length of that gorgeous neck, fumbling open Sherlock’s flies to part his trousers just enough to get a hand in. His erection was already delightfully hard, and John ran his fingers up and down the length of it, relishing the heat of it even through the cotton of his pants. 

“You bad boy.” John’s voice continued to slide through gravel as he palmed Sherlock’s cock and squeezed.

“Yes.” Sherlock choked out. “So bad.” When he cracked open eyes gone a night-dark green, John groaned and caught his lips in a fierce kiss. 

Sherlock returned the frenzy of John’s mouth with a sweet abandon of his own. His hands had wrapped around John, digging his fingers into his backside to urge him even closer. John was certain that Sherlock could write a full treatise on the proper technique of bedroom games if he so chose, but it was the openness that he brought to their lovemaking that turned John inside out. There was nothing Sherlock wouldn’t do with his mouth against John’s skin, nothing he wouldn’t say to make John burst into flame. John growled again at the feel of Sherlock plundering him as much as kissing over his mouth, and chin, and jaw.

John worked his hand past Sherlock’s frustrating last layer to wrap his fingers around his love’s gorgeous cock. Sherlock did a full body shudder at the contact, and John chuckled dark and low at feeling the quiver. “You’re my good boy, too, aren’t you?” His hand stroked up and down the hard shaft, silk over steel, squeezing tight. “You can be sooo good for me? Hmmmmm?” He hummed over Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes, yes, John.” Sherlock breathed out, head arched back, his face contorted in near pain at the sensations rippling over him. “Wait, John , no, . . . want . . . ” Sherlock struggled to get a full sentence together.

“What, baby, what do you want?” John licked up Sherlock’s throat daring him to pull a more coherent thought together. 

But Sherlock had a massive brain and even in utter surrender, he could still sometimes sneak a few words past his happily wallowing libido. “You . . . want you, John.” He managed to pant.

John was impressed that he’d gotten that much out, and he rewarded him, by reaching down to unhook his own flies, releasing his swollen prick between them. Sherlock surged forward as if trying to get his hands, his cock, and his mouth all closer to John’s penis at the same moment before he realized the impossibility of the maneuver. 

“Sshhh, love, settle. Let me. Just let me.” John urged Sherlock back against the door. Sherlock whimpered, but John shushed him, holding his palm up to his mouth. “Lick” he said, and Sherlock did. John gathered their cocks together in his slick hand and stroked. They both hissed at the pleasure. It never failed to amaze John how wonderful it felt to have the length of Sherlock pressed against him. Watching his love’s face melt as he neared orgasm was just an added bonus. John moved his hand against the two of them, enjoying the sensations sparking up his nerves, the broken sounds slipping from Sherlock’s open mouth, and the feeling of being this close to the man he loved more than any . . .

The sharp rap at the door behind Sherlock’s arse broke through their haze like a canon ball. A man on the other side cleared his throat politely. “I’m sorry Your Graces, but Master William did ask me to alert you when it was time to dress for dinner.” It was Goodson, their royal valet, of course. The man was a curse as much as a blessing. 

“Precious Gods.” John groaned. Sherlock's penis had softened under his hand. The thread of what they had been weaving had sadly snapped.

Sherlock knocked his head lightly back against the door. "Goodson.” He croaked, then swallowed before beginning again. “Come back in five minutes.” 

“Very good, sir.” The man replied before the sound of footsteps retreating reached them. 

“Oh, love, I’m sorry.” John dropped his forehead to Sherlock’s, huffing out a soft laugh.

“No, I’m sorry. Obviously I should have dismissed Goodson years ago. He’s too prompt for his own good.” Sherlock’s voice hadn’t any bite to it at all, and John smiled as he reached out a hand to help him to his feet. 

“You can’t do that, love. Who else would put up with the insanity of our lives so well?” 

“There is that.” Sherlock agreed, tucking himself back into his clothes as John did the same. John glanced over the two of them in their rumpled state, and it was quite obvious that they were going to need the heroic help of the valet to be presentable for a fashionable dinner any time soon. 

“John,” Sherlock had grown more serious as he cupped a hand to John’s cheek. “Can I take a rain check on this?” 

At his words, John suddenly noticed that quite apropos of Sherlock’s request, rain was lashing quite insistently against the windows of the bedroom. They really had been in a world of their own for a moment. 

“Any time, love. You have me any time you want.” John smiled softly. 

As it was, they were still shamelessly snogging when Goodson entered the room to help them dress, but that wasn’t anything new.

 

~ o ~

 

“But what are we meant to be looking for with Croque?” John asked as Goodson finished tying a complicated knot in his cravat. He cast an eye over the servant as he fussed at John’s collar, but they could be free with their tongues around him. Goodson was as loyal a servant as they came.

“Unusual behaviour, guilty tells.” Sherlock waved a hand from the chair where he perched already perfectly assembled. 

“I don’t know if shagging half the party is unusual or not.” John countered. “Ugghhh.” He gargled at Goodson. “Does it have to be so tight?” 

“Sorry, sir. I can try a barrel knot instead. It’s more forgiving.” 

“Thank you, Goodson.” John was never happy with formal wear, and the looser the better. He glanced over at Sherlock who looked as well turned out as an illustration on a tailor’s wall. Somehow Sherlock was able to use fashion as a weapon. John licked his lips. He still wanted a chance to bend Sherlock over some piece of furniture and have his way with him. 

Sherlock flicked hooded eyes his way and smirked, reading his mind as always.

“And what about that Mary Morstan?” John raised his eyebrows toward Sherlock, holding still as Goodson ran a final lint brush over him before releasing him. “She was creeping around behind him all day. Of course the same could be said of me . . . “ John trailed off with a sigh. “So, what’s her story?” 

“Miss Morstan is of no importance.” Sherlock waved the thought away with a careless hand. “So, Goodson." He turned back toward the valet. “What’s the word with the servants? Are they all in fear for their lives from the Haunt of Basketville Hall?”

“I’d say some of them might be nervous, but the younger ones are mostly curious, hoping they might see something they can brag about to their friends later. The new cook arrived this afternoon. Or cooks, I should say. They hired on two sisters from the village for a fairly hefty sum I’ve been told. Most in the village won’t work for them anymore. They can be a superstitious lot in the countryside.” Goodson clucked his tongue at his last thought. 

“Just so.” Sherlock nodded, steepling his hands under his chin. “It occurred to me in looking at the list that Basketville provided us that someone important was missing from it.”

“Oh?” John asked, waiting for the reveal. Sherlock did so love his drama.

“The housekeeper, Mrs. Garrott. She’s been here the longest of any of the servants, but not once is she listed as seeing any spooks around the manor. Now either she’s lying, or she has some ability to keep ghosts at bay. I want to find out which it is.” 

“John,” Sherlock continued, his hands still steepled before him as his eyes moved back and forth, no doubt processing crucial things in that big brain of his. 

“Yes, dear?” Oh, John was such a good straight man. 

“If the weather clears, the grouse hunt will be tomorrow morning. Croque has said that he will attend . . .” 

John groaned aloud. He hated hunts. As a foot solidier in the Gallatian wars, John felt that he had had his fill of shooting and being shot at. He hardly fancied mucking about killing creatures for sport if it wasn’t a matter of life or death.

“No, no - you don’t have to go.” Sherlock flapped a placating hand toward John. “I’ll go. That leaves you free to remain at the manor. You can speak with Mrs. Garrott in my absence - use that Watson charm to see what you can get out of her.”

“Watson-Holmes charm, surely.” John snorted softly.

“Goodson, you keep an ear out.” Sherlock ordered the valet. “See if anyone else has anything to say about ghosts, and there’s a bonus for you if you actually SEE a ghost yourself.” 

“Of course, sir.” Goodson said, finishing with John’s suit, and stepping back to pack his kit away. Since it was King Mycroft who actually paid Goodson handsomely to watch after Sherlock, they all pretended that a bonus from Sherlock made any difference. Of course Goodson actually liked Sherlock and John, and enjoyed helping them out. If it had been any different, Sherlock would not have kept the man around. 

“All right, my fine sir. Are we off to dinner then? I hope the new cooks are good, I could eat a horse.” John grinned at Sherlock.

Sherlock finally stopped puzzling over his thoughts, dropped his hands, and straightened up to focus on John properly. “Yes, of cour . . .” Sherlock’s jaw nearly dropped when he took in John’s evening wear. He watched Sherlock’s eyes literally darken from a mid-blue to a shining green “sex eyes” as his gaze tracked up and down the dark tailored suit hugging John’s body. John nearly tackled his love onto the four-poster bed then and there in front of Goodson to finish what they had started earlier. It was only the thought of the valet’s distress at seeing his good work undone that stopped him. 

“Hungry?” John held out an elbow.

“Starving.” Sherlock agreed, rising, and taking John’s offered arm in one fluid motion. “Goodson, don’t wait up for us.” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder as they moved toward the door. “We’ll undress ourselves later.” He purred in a quieter voice.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Goodson nodded. If he muttered something at the end like “Just don’t ruin another outfit.” Well, who was listening when you had a gorgeous man on your arm to escort you to dinner?

 

~ o ~

 

Dinner began with even more wine than the first night. “My dear friends,” Lady Basketville rose to make announcements at the start of the meal. “We are so fortunate to have some new Gallatian vintages to sample this evening. We’ll begin with a wine tasting. Please join me in giving a hand to Monsieur Croque for presenting us with this lovely gift.” 

“It’s nothing, nothing.” Croque had demurred half-rising to wave off the applause. “My brother, he owns a vineyard. It is my pleasure to share some of his treasures with you good people. _Mes amis,_ enjoy!” 

Lady Basketville also insisted that everyone sit next to someone new at the table for dinner. John was quite sad to lose Kitty as a dinner companion. Instead of having her nearby to joke about the overdone noodles, and fish that should still be swimming, she was wrapped half around Victor Trevor all night giggling at his no-doubt witty repartee. Sherlock was sat down the table next to a man who kept bees, and they seemed to have a lovely engaging conversation for most of the evening. Sadly John ended up between two ladies who seemed to have some feud going on between them, and he spent the meal passing the salt and mustard back and forth for them under frosty glares. He drank rather more than he meant to, and was already growing maudlin in his cups when the nursemaids brought round the Basketville’s infant children for a brief visit with the guests. 

They were two sweet little cream puffs fresh from their bath and wrapped round in yellow gowns with duckies embroidered on them. All the women from the party gathered around to coo and cluck over them, and Lady Basketville let a few of them hold the wee dears before they were off to bed. 

John couldn’t help thinking somewhat darkly that Sherlock was about to become a father, and really, he was not. He was thrilled for Sherlock and Irene, and Kate of course, happy for their happiness, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit on the outside of the whole thing. His own parents had had a monogamous marriage, and not a happy one at that. John wasn’t sure how group marriages managed to survive with all the complications put on them. Sherlock and Irene would share a deep bond at a biological level with this new child, and John would be an adjunct father however things shook out. Becoming parents changed people. He saw enough families at the healers’ sanctuary to know that children were very hard work, and often pushed strained relationships apart.

John sighed and took another deep draught of his wine. He was being silly. Sherlock loved him. The infant prince would change things, but it didn’t mean the end of who _they_ were. John sent Sherlock a moony look, and like a sunflower following the course of the sun, Sherlock turned to him, eyes slightly glazed. He cocked his head in question. _Are you well, my love?_

 _No, I need you now._ John’s long face answered back.

Sherlock nodded and excused himself to come around to fetch John. The dinner was breaking up to the usual card games, and sherry, and they both made excuses, so tired, sorry, another time. John leaned against Sherlock as they left the buzz of the peopled rooms behind. He was a little more pissed than he had realized, and he wobbled all the way to the main staircase where the first step almost toppled him.

“Steady on, soldier.” Sherlock laughed, grabbing John’s arm to right him. 

“I don’ wanna be steady.” John argued, falling against him. He plunged a hand into Sherlock’s curls to bring his jaw closer to his lips."Wanna fuck you so much.” He mumbled, licking under Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, and turned to catch John’s mouth with his own. His breath was a little sour with wine, and he wasn’t quite as sober as he appeared at first. They shared messy, sloppy, breathless kisses trying to work hands under clothing that had simply too many layers before Sherlock pulled back.

“Let’s get back to our room, now, shall we?” Sherlock breathed, eyes bright, and curls a mad mess stuck out around him. “I want to peel you naked, love, and here is not the place.”

“Working on it.” John said earnestly as he wobbled them to the staircase, and valiantly attempted to get a boot onto it. 

“Come on, Watson.” Sherlock ordered, slinging an arm under John’s shoulders. “Three-legged race, inside foot first.” 

They worked out a rhythm, leaning against each other to climb the stairs, finally reaching the floor to their room. A large boom split the air as they crossed the landing. John cried out and jumped, nearly toppling them both to the floor. When a quick flash of light appeared in the windows illuminating the rain pounding down outside, he relaxed, chuckling at himself. Weaker flashes followed throwing weird shadows across the hallway.

“Just the Gods playing at bowling.” Sherlock whispered at John’s ear with a smile. John giggled at the old nursery saying, stumbling against Sherlock. When he tried to right himself, he found his hand naturally falling to Sherlock’s arse. 

“You gorgeous man.” John mumbled, nuzzling at Sherlock’s neck as his hand kneaded into sensitive flesh. 

“Ah.” Sherlock nearly squeaked. “No, none of that, my dear fellow, or we won’t make it back to our room.” Sherlock smiled, but moved John’s hand firmly back to his waist. They continued their inelegant but practical lurch down the corridor.

“Oh Great Gods, are we seven or eight doors in?” John muttered frowning at the swaying line of doors.

“Nine.” Sherlock said, “Come on, we’re nearly there.”

John sighed as they finally reached the right door, but Sherlock stopped his hand when he reached for the doorknob. “No, wait." He whispered. "Something’s not right, listen.” 

Sherlock stood stock still, his preternaturally keen senses on alert like a cat with its ears perked high. The whiff of danger had gotten John’s hackles up too, and he sobered somewhat, straining to hear the faint noise as well. A very odd thumping was coming from inside their room. Sherlock put his fingers to his lips, and moved back to a small end table holding a set of candles. Quickly he blew them out and dropping the candles to the table, hefted the heavy brass base in his hand to return to John’s side. 

Through some sophisticated, completely nonverbal haggling, John insisted on taking the makeshift weapon. Sherlock finally gave up arguing and handed it over. They held eye contact as Sherlock raised three fingers, and silently counted down three, two, one. John let loose a banshee cry, as Sherlock whipped the door open, and they charged into the room. John swung the candle holder in an arc before him, as Sherlock scrambled behind him. John meant to stop, but his momentum took him sailing across the room. Another burst of lightning silhouetted him perfectly as he skidded through a large puddle of water, windmilled his arms, and with a shout, tumbled head first into a chest of drawers. The pain was exquisite.

“John, _John_.” Sherlock was on him in an instant, rolling him over, checking for injuries. 

“What, wha?” John struggled to speak, blinking in a daze as cold rain spattered on his face from the open window above.

“The sound, it was just a shutter in the wind.” Sherlock motioned to the window where a shutter outside was indeed being lashed about by the wind. He touched John’s face briefly before rising to wrestle with the shutters and close the window. 

“Sir, is everything all right?” Two young maids drawn by the noise stood at the door, one with a brace of candles in her hand throwing sudden shadows over the room. By its light John could see that though the room was empty of intruders, someone had indeed been there that evening. Everything they owned had been dragged from the dressers and wardrobe and tossed haphazardly around the space. Someone had obviously ransacked the place while they had been at dinner. 

Goodson was beside them in an instant, the usually impeccably dressed valet in slippers, and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a small book clutched in one hand. 

“What in the world?” Goodson exclaimed dropping his book, and moving in to assist Sherlock in helping John from his ignominious position on the floor to one of the chairs by the hearth. One of the maid instantly set to building up the fire, as a few guests drawn to the commotion poked their heads in at the door. 

“Here, John, put this to your forehead.” Sherlock said handing John a handkerchief, and helping him press it in place. 

“ _Bon Dieu._ ” Antoine Croque was there with his neckcloth off, and an angry mark that looked like teeth prints on his neck. Goodness did the man ever stop? John thought idly, lifting the handkerchief from his forehead only to see it gone quite red. He felt a wave of dizziness crest over him, and he immediately pressed the cloth back to the gash on his head, applying as much pressure as he was able. 

“Oh, sir, I’ll fetch the housekeeper.” One of the maid bobbed looking frightened. 

“Shall I send for a healer?” the other asked. 

“No, no don’t bother. We’ll sort this out in the morning.” Sherlock waved them away.”But we could definitely use some help in cleaning up this mess. Oh, and some hot water.”

“Right away, sir. I’m so sorry, sir.”

John closed his eyes as Goodson herded the crowd from their room. 

“Love, send me some energy, I want to fix your head.” Sherlock leaned in close, and took John’s free hand in both of his. John tried to nod, and thought better of it. His head ached. As a chameleon mage, Sherlock could have simply lifted an echo of John’s talent off his skin, but if John sent him energy while he did it, it increased Sherlock’s power significantly. 

John visualized sending a ball of raw energy to his love. He smiled as he felt Sherlock absorbing it, shaping it and returning it with a gentle touch that caressed over his hurts, soothing the throb in his head. It was like a warm gentle bath made of his husband enveloping him. John sighed and relaxed into it. He might have drifted off for a moment. When he came to, blinking his eyes open to the room, all he saw were Sherlock’s eyes - wide and open, swirling with so many colours like a summer sea watching him carefully. 

“How are you, love?” 

“Much improved.” John said. “I’m sorry I rushed in like that.” He couldn’t help pinking up a bit at being felled by a puddle on the floor.

“Nonsense. You were very brave to go first.” Sherlock reached out to brush hair away from John’s forehead. He probed the healing skin with his fingers. “Much improved. I don’t like seeing you with holes in your head, love.” 

“I don’t much like having them.” John agreed. 

Sherlock oversaw the servants who bustled through the room setting things to rights while John was banished to the bed with a hot water bottle. When John tried to rise and help, Sherlock whispered in his ear. “I’m going to suck your cock in front of these people if you don’t lie still. You’ve had blood loss, and you’ll just fall down if you stand up right now.”

John harrumphed, but consented to lie back down, closing his eyes to listen to the gentle buzz of voices around him. 

“I swear, sir, I was tidying in here only an hour ago, and things were fine.” Goodson protested.

“Our intruder works fast.” Sherlock replied. “Don’t worry. I doubt you could have caught them unless you’d camped out in here. Whoever it was, they know this house like the back of their hand.”

After a few more mumbles, Goodson departed, and the mattress dipped down as Sherlock joined John on the bed.

“So, what’s the damage?” John asked, cracking an eye open.

“Not much is gone.” Sherlock told him. “They got my magnifying glass, and most of our toiletries – the creams and such.” 

“They got all of Anthea’s creams?” John groaned. 

“Not all of them. Goodson has some in his things.” Sherlock sighed. “It looks like a pretty clear message though. Someone isn’t too happy about my poking around.” 

“Great Mother. Are we safe staying here?” John asked.

“No one has been physically attacked here in several years of "hauntings," so I’d say it’s a fair bet we won’t be first. Malicious chest of drawers not included.”

John grunted back, still slightly embarrassed. Sherlock stood to shed his outer clothes to the floor, and climbed in under the bed covers, wrapping himself around John. John opened his arms to pull him close, meeting Sherlock’s lips with a sleepy kiss. John meant to do more, meant to trace a path down that glorious neck, but he found himself sliding down into sleep’s dark embrace before he could get there.

~ o ~


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grouse shoots, and luncheon, and Victor Trevor - oh my!

~ o ~

 

Sherlock set one knee into the mattress to lean over the form of his sleeping husband. He buried his nose in the short hairs at the nape his neck, and inhaled deeply. John smelled like sleep, and warmth, and all things good and precious. John made a growly sort of noise, obviously tickled by Sherlock. Thankfully, John's forehead was smooth after the healing last night, and he looked to be resting quite peacefully. Sherlock didn’t want to leave him. Light was making its way through the curtains though, and grouse hunts didn’t wait for the sun to travel across the sky, or even for the cuddling of delectable husbands. If it weren’t for Victor Trevor, Sherlock would crawl right back under the covers, and curl himself around John for the forseeable future, but needs must. He dropped a folded note on the pillow next to his love, and with a last caress over his hip, strode to the door, opening and closing it as quietly as he could. 

No one else was about in the corridors this early, and Sherlock mulled things over undisturbed as he made his way down to the ground level. It was true that he had proved rightfully to Mycroft in the past that Victor hadn’t been in at a key meeting of conspirators plotting against the king. This didn’t mean however that Victor hadn’t been keeping company with the vipers for some time earlier. Mycroft was searching for a rat near the crown again, and Sherlock wasn’t completely sure Victor _wasn't_ involved. It was no exaggeration to say that Sherlock owed Victor his life – even if Victor had perhaps helped place him in peril in the first place. Still, Sherlock thought with a sigh, he had a debt to settle, and by the many-named Gods, he would repay it. Both Monsieur Croque, and Victor would be at the grouse shoot this morning, so Sherlock would be there as well with eyes and ears open for whatever information could be garnered. 

Those arriving for the hunt gathered by the stables, white puffs of breath from both humans and whinnying horses hanging around them in the frigid dawn air. It seemed most of the men from the house party, and several of the Basketville’s neighbors had turned out in force for the event. Servants hurried round with platters of steaming tea, and bacon sandwiches as dogs added to the chaos milling underfoot and begging for scraps. Sherlock accepted a mug and sandwich noting that the food had made an uptick since the new cooks' arrival.

“Well, Your Highness, fancy seeing you this morning. Didn’t think a bird shoot was quite your thing.” Victor had ambled his way holding a mug and food of his own in hand.

“What you don’t know about me could fill volumes, Lord Trevor.” Sherlock drawled taking a swallow from his cup. The hot liquid helped to dispel the chill of the morning as it was meant to. 

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Victor said, actual or perhaps well-feigned hurt dancing in his light blue eyes. “I almost forgot how sharp that tongue of yours can be when you chose.”

“Why are you here, Victor?” Sherlock asked, perhaps a bit softer than his earlier words.

“To hunt small game birds, I thought that was somewhat obvious.” Victor drawled in turn raising both eyebrows.

“No, here, at this insipid house party.” Sherlock gestured vaguely at the Basketville manor and grounds around them.

“I was invited. And I could ask the same of you.” Victor returned, finishing off the remains of his sandwich in a few tidy bites. 

“I was asked to come and be useful.” Sherlock said, dropping the rest of his food to the ground, endearing him greatly to the nearest dog that moved to snap it up. “And to raise the woefully sagging social standing of Lord Basketville with my august presence.” 

“Yes, it’s always quite an accomplishment to snag the attentions of a prince, isn’t it?” Victor smiled ruefully. 

“That it is.” Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the side of his lips in answer. 

He and Victor had often made fun of the sometimes desperate social jockeying that was lifeblood to the aristocratic set. As the third son to the Duke of Havenshire, Victor was not due to inherit any land or titles unless both his older brothers met with sticky ends. Sharing the questionable honor of noble birth with no power to go with it had once bound them as comrades-in-arms . . . that and their shared fascination with things best not spoken of in polite company, of course. 

Sherlock turned and finally allowed himself to view Victor fully in the unforgiving wash of sharp morning light. He was certainly older, grown heavier, with more lines bracketing that handsome face than when they had cut a swath through Delphium’s seamy underbelly of dubious gatherings, and even more dubious companions. Those quick blue eyes staring back at him with a twinkle were still quite the same though.

Sherlock reminded himself they couldn’t have carried on much longer with their shenanigans without one or the other of them meeting with some sadly unfortunate ending. Though Victor’s father hadn’t meant it as a kindness when he packed his youngest son off to that tour of the continent, it had probably allowed the two of them to become the men standing in this lesser lord’s courtyard today considering each other over something as innocuous as mugs of hot tea.

“Speaking of winning your attentions, where is that little healer of yours?” Victor glanced about.

“My _husband_ ,” Sherlock enjoyed putting a particular emphasis on the title, “cares little for the hunting of animals for sport, or the unctuous social climbing that goes with it.”

Victor shrugged. “Pity that we, the gently bred, must spend time with such pointless occupations ourselves. Still, can’t beat a nice brace of grouse under cream sauce for tea, hmmm?” He patted his belly, and all but smacked his full lips.

Sherlock chuckled despite himself. How did Victor always make him laugh even when he was throwing pointed barbs at the man? He wasn’t sure it was a good thing that such an easy connection still ran between them after all these years. Still, despite Victor’s more genial appearance, they were quite the same beneath the skin after all, were they not - always looking for the next thing to feed sharp minds left to rot in the safe, still waters of aristocratic harbors.

“Do you remember the time I bet that you couldn’t scale the side of the Council of Lords’ building?” Victor asked completely changing the subject. 

“As I recall, I won that bet completely drunk off my arse.” Sherlock snorted. “As I further recall, I earned myself two broken ribs in with the bargain as well.”

“You always had to win at any cost, didn’t you?” Victor tilted his head with a smile.

“Victor Patrick Gaylord Trevor, what game are you playing at?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the large blond man. “You are up to something here. I can smell it on you.”

“Aw, can’t fool you, hmm, Bunny?” His voice was so soft that Sherlock let the use of the old pet name pass. “It’s nothing of your concern, and of no harm to your family. Let it pass, eh?”

Sherlock would have said more, but the gamekeeper called out, urging everyone over for a safety lesson, and demonstration on the proper handling of the long guns for the shoot. After the simple instructions that even a child should know, they were rounded up to travel by a line of carriages to the moor, dogs and servants bringing up the rear in an open wagon behind. Lord Basketville was decidedly in his element running about clapping everyone on the back, his big white teeth shining from under his bushy mustache every time he smiled upon a new recipient for his enthusiasm. Victor and Sherlock ended up in the coach with Antoine Croque, Lord Summerset, and two other men who were neighbors of Lord Basketville, a Mr. Ruggles, and a Lord Ramsbottom.

“Have you been on many shoots?” Lord Summerset asked M. Croque politely as the coach pulled out to follow the one ahead of them. 

“Oh no, I have never had the pleasure before.” Croque said. “My good friend, Lord Trevor, he assures me it is a worthy pursuit, and I must try it.” He looked back to pat Victor good naturedly on the arm. Sherlock cut his gaze toward Victor, but the infuriating man refused to meet his eyes. 

“How is your husband faring, sir?” Croque turned to address Sherlock. “It was most distressing the shouting last night. I thought the ghosts of Basketville Hall had struck again for sure.” 

“It was an accident.” Sherlock answered smoothly. “Healer Watson-Holmes is quite fine, thank you. And there is no proof that there are actual ghosts at the manor.”

“No ghosts at the manor? But what of all the stories, old chap!” one of the other men, Ruggles, exclaimed.

“I agree, so many stories can’t be wrong.” Lord Summerset leaned in with an avid look. “The ladies and I were quite hoping to see something of the occult while at the manor. It’s a bit of a hobby of ours, ghosts, you see.”

“Tongues will wag about all sorts of topics, will they not? Just because there are tales, doesn’t make a thing true.” Sherlock spoke up, almost staying silent, because how can one even argue with such non-logic?

Still, the other men looked thoughtful at this, and soon the conversation turned to talk of shoots past, and other innocuous topics that Sherlock could filter out to think in peace. It seemed but an instant before the carriage was rumbling to a stop as they reached their destination.

The air had warmed considerably as the sun rose, burning the mists off the fields, and they disembarked to a fine, clear day. The men moved through the rituals of good natured joshing as packs and guns were readied, and dogs were leashed. After several minutes, the party finally set out walking along the rolling moors under a heart-stoppingly blue sky. 

Sherlock had waved off taking a gun of his own, letting a servant have control of it for him, saying he preferred to simply observe. Much like John, Sherlock felt one should only wield a gun if one had pressing need of it, and killing for sport held little appeal for him. The shoot was unbearably dull for the first hour, no birds sighted, merely traipsing about over ground still soft and mucky from the rains of the night before. Sherlock watched Victor and Antoine Croque as the group made their rag-tag way through the grasses. The two men kept close together and seemed intent on working their way through the some two dozen men in the party, chatting them up in a seemingly casual manner. For what purpose, Sherlock wondered again, knowing there was something Victor wasn’t telling him. He was almost feeling left out of the circle dance of small talk when the now unleashed dogs darted forward, barking wildly to flush quarry from the underbrush ahead. 

The startled birds lifted instantly, taking to wing to escape. For just a moment, they were lovely, poised outspread silhouettes hanging against the bright sky. Then the noise of the guns blasted out, shattered the illusion of calm. One, two, three and more of the shapes halted in mid-flight, hanging for a heartbeat before plummeting sickeningly back to the earth.

Sherlock couldn’t understand the sudden wave of emotion that swept over him. Something prickled at the back of his throat and he had to swallow several times to settle it. It felt heinously wrong, like a desecration of something most sacred to tear these beautiful creatures from their dance across the sky. Of course, this was the reason for being out here on this moor, or at least part of the reason - the chasing and killing of birds. It was done for the pleasure of pulling the trigger, but also for gathering something to be cooked up for supper with leftover for luncheon if you were lucky. Some must die so that others could eat. It was the way of the animal kingdom, and nothing he hadn’t known since he was three years old. Of course the men were gloating over their good fortune afterwards, slapping each other on the back as the dogs retrieved the downed birds, making merry of the whole exercise. This too was also the point.

Sherlock almost couldn’t look at the small, lifeless, feathered bodies as they were counted and stored in bags. He mentally shook himself, chastising his folly for succumbing to the sudden odd melancholy that had momentarily swamped him. He had attended numerous hunts while growing up. It was generally a tedious, messy affair from what he could recall, but something considered necessary for the king’s sons to experience, a symbolic show of power. See, I hold the gun, I can take the weaker creatures down, and if you disobey me, it might be you. Sherlock had disliked the barbaric exercise then, but something about it today seemed even more unbearable than usual. 

Sherlock rubbed at his forehead, and blew out a breath. A servant stepped forward with a water flask, and asked if he were feeling ill. He shook his head, and waved him off, making himself stand taller, and smile at the other men as they celebrated their catch. 

The party continued to repeat the exercise in death twice more before Lord Basketville decided they had gone far enough, and declared it was time to head back. The sun had climbed to its zenith by the time they reached where their carriages waited. Servants unpacked bread, cheese, and wine that they passed around to the hungry men with the promise of a heartier luncheon when they reached the manor. 

“A fine shoot, eh, Prince William?” Lord Basketville thumped Sherlock as he passed by, and Sherlock could only produce a small, forced smile in reply. 

Victor worked his way through the crowd to draw near. He ran his eyes over Sherlock as he pushed a cup of wine at him. “You should get out more often. You look peaky, William.”

“You should mind your own business.” Sherlock growled, but accepted the cup anyway. He was more grateful than cared to admit to simply stand by Victor sharing an amiable silence as they sipped their wine, and watched the preparations for their return. When a plump lord bent over exposing a large crack of his arse above his slipping-down trousers, Victor nudged Sherlock with his shoulder, and pointed to the sight.

“That one certainly lives up to his name, eh?" Victor whispered. "Raaamsbottom.” He drew the man’s name out like a sheep’s bleat.

“Grow up, Victor.” Sherlock scolded him quietly, but found himself snickering along with the man despite himself. “We always did bring out the worst in each other didn’t we?” He said once their giggles had subsided.

“Oh, Wills, you wound me. I consider our campaign of debauchery to be some of my finest moments.” Victor quirked a smile before swallowing down the rest of his wine.

“You would.” Sherlock returned, but a smile hovered over his own mouth as well.

 

~ o ~

 

John woke to full daylight, a pounding headache, and sadly no curly-headed genius beside him in the bed. He groaned as he pulled himself upright, only discovering the letter on the bed when he returned from a trip to the chamber pot. He rubbed at his eyes, willing them to focus before unfolding the note.

_John,_

_Off to grouse shoot – back by luncheon. We can interview the housekeeper then. You snore. Take the morning off. I love you._  
_-S_  
_P.S. I love your snores_

John grunted half a laugh as he refolded the page, and dropped it on the night table beside the bed. He ran a hand over his face, and deliberated over his options for sustenance and hygiene. None seemed very appealing when he felt like shite. No more red wine before bedtime he chided himself, and was just considering moving his arse into action, when Goodson bustled in with a breakfast tray, and newspapers tucked under his arm. He handed John a steaming mug straightaway, and kindly refrained from any speech until after John had consumed fully half of it. Tasting of honey and cloves, the tea was obviously laced with Anthea’s hangover cure. John felt colour returning to the world around him.

“How are you feeling today, sir?” 

“Ah, much better now. Thank you Goodson, you are a miracle worked.” John sighed as the first effects of the potion seeped through his system. “That was the ticket.” 

“Very good sir,” the valet nodded, “now if you’ll just sit back?”

Goodson helped John prop himself up with the pillows before settling the tray over his lap. John was feeling better by the minute as he spooned up soft-boiled egg on perfectly-done toast points. The valet answered a knock at the door only to return with a pitcher of hot wash water for when John was finished. 

“Goodson, you spoil me, but thank you.” 

“Sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, my job has been much easier since you came into the picture.” 

“He’s a right arse sometimes, isn’t he? Great Gallanus, but I love him.” John grinned. 

“Just so.” Goodson said.

“Goodson, did you hear anything suspicious at all last night in the room . . . well before I had a fight with a chest of drawers?”

Goodson shook his head. “Sadly, no, nothing. As I told His Highness yesterday, the walls are quite thick here. I wish I could be of more help, sir.”

“No matter. Sherlock will solve it. He always does.” John said, spooning up his porridge before it went cold. 

John declined Goodson’s offer of washing and dressing him in favour of tending to his toilette himself, but he found himself lingering in the room rather than bustling off to seize the day afterwards. He settled into an armchair enjoying the small fire, and caught up on the news sheets from Delphium. He was chuckling over the rumors that Sherlock and Irene were expecting twins when the man himself breezed in looking rakishly windblown, with a just a slight band of pink over his nose to mar the overall effect.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asked, bending down to drop a kiss to John’s forehead.

“Nothing – just more rot in the gossip columns." John smiled up at him fondly. "So, how was the grouse shoot?” He asked, folding his paper and setting it to the side.

“Tedious.” Sherlock said dropping into the chair opposite. “But the outing was not without its useful information. Victor and Antoine Croque seem to be working together on something. They were finagling their way into the good graces of all the local gentry for some reason. I couldn’t get a straight answer from Victor about it,” He paused to pull at a boot that was wedged on tight. 

“But I’m sure . . .” tug, 

“I can ask around . . .” tug, 

“later for more . . .” tug, 

“information.” The boot finally came free with a pop.

“Here, leg up, my fine sir.” John said taking pity on him, and scooted closer to help him remove the second one. Sherlock did so, dropping his foot unceremoniously in John’s lap. John whuffed and grabbed hold, tugging forcefully until the recalcitrant footwear finally yielded and slipped free. Sherlock sighed, wiggling his toes at the sudden freedom. It was but a small distance to slide down, line his stockinged foot up with John’s crotch, and wiggle with a bit more purpose.

“Mmmm, is this my payment for removing your boot?” John smiled.

“No, this is just an advert.” Sherlock said. “I can manage so much moooooore as payment for your many fine services.”

John was quite sad when a firm but polite knock at the door interrupted them. Sherlock sighed and righted himself, placing both feet on the floor before calling “Come in.”

The older woman, the housekeeper who had first met them as they arrived at the manor, Mrs. Garrott, entered cradling a large bottle in her arms. “Your Highnesses, pardon the intrusion.” She dropped a small curtsy. "I heard of your troubles last night. The entire staff apologizes, and his lordship sent a small gift to perhaps ease your discomfort.” She stepped forward to present Sherlock with the bottle. 

“Ah, how nice. I thank you for the concern,” Sherlock took the bottle from her, glancing down at the hand written label, “but the damage was quite minimal.”

The woman licked her lips, glancing nervously about the room. “I can’t begin to imagine how this bad business happened. I’ve been questioning the staff, but we haven’t found the thief yet. I’ll let you know though as soon as we find something out. We won’t stand for this sort of thing at Basketville hall, and the culprit will be sorely punished when they’re found . . .”

“I would like an opportunity to question the staff myself.” Sherlock cut over her with a wave of his hand.

The look of concern that washed over Mrs. Garrott’s face was quickly replaced by a polite smile. “Ah, yes, all right then, sir.” She stammered. “I can ask Lord Basketville about making a downstairs parlour available to you.”

“That’s fine, and if you can just inform the servants, and get them organized, I’ll be much obliged.” Sherlock pasted his “oh see how normal I am” smile across his face as Mrs. Garrott blinked at him.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but much of the staff will be busy with the luncheon being served directly. If you could wait until later this afternoon perhaps?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s fine.” Sherlock rose briskly to his feet to usher the housekeeper to the door. “I do thank you and Lord Basketville for such a lovely gift,” Sherlock waved the bottle in emphasis, “but we don’t wish to keep you any longer. I’m certain you have duties to attend to.” 

“Yes, sir, very good, Your Highness.” The woman bobbed, making a quick exit in the face of another one of Sherlock’s manufactured smiles.

“Good-bye Mrs. Garrott.” Sherlock closed the door behind her. He dropped the smile instantly to return to his chair, setting the bottle on the floor.

“Do you really think it was one of the staff that raided our room?” John asked. “It could have been one of the guests.”

“Whoever is the culprit, Mrs. Garrott knows them. She was lying when she said she didn’t. That makes the thief, at the very least, someone she is willing to lie for. It might be a fellow staff member, or it might not." Sherlock shrugged. "Interviewing the servants will yield more information either way.”

“You don’t think SHE ransacked our room, do you?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous John, the woman is pushing seventy. No, she didn’t do it, but she’s covering up for whoever did. Too many tells in her manner.” 

“Why would she bother covering up for someone if it might mean her job?” John wrinkled his brow.

“An excellent question, my dear fellow. Please keep it in mind as we interview staff after this luncheon thing.”

“So speaking of food, shall we go down? I admit I’m a bit peckish, despite breakfast in bed. Goodson is a wonder.”

“He is at that.” Sherlock chuckled. “I suppose we must make appearances. It will give me a chance to talk to some of the gentry Victor and Croque were canoodling with all morning. Give me a moment to steel my nerves though.” Sherlock sighed. 

“Poor thing – all this mingling.” John smiled indulgently. “So, what’s the plonk?” He nodded toward the bottle. 

“Brandy. It’s more of Antoine Croque’s Gallatian wine that he’s been sloshing around.” Sherlock caught the bottle up to read the label again. “This looks to be quite a prime year. Lord Basketville must be afraid we are about to turn tail and abandon the case before it’s solved.” Sherlock snorted at the very thought that a ransacking of their room would send them into retreat, and set the bottle back down.

“Ugh, I have to say, after last night, I may never drink brandy again.” John rubbed a hand over his forehead. The hangover cure had done wonders for his health, but just the memory of how he’d felt upon waking made him shudder.

“Ah, welcome to the dissolute upper crust,” Sherlock teased. “Here we can enjoy a level of debauchery and debasement that only those with enough filthy lucre to lubricate the proceedings can afford to keep the whole debacle shuffling along.” 

“Really, love? I don’t think I’ve had nearly enough debasement this week.” A very naughty twinkle had come into John’s eye as he realized he had his husband in a private room, ALONE, for a few minutes while they were both conscious. He rose from his seat and prowled the few steps needed to stand before Sherlock’s chair. “In fact, hardly any debasement at all has happened now that I stop to think about it.” John flashed him a hungry look as he crawled onto Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock grunted slightly as John settled onto him. An answering smile spread over his lips as tipped his head back to better regard John. “Mmmm, and do you need some debasing, my good sir?” He slid long hands to curve comfortably around John’s backside.

“Ever so much so.” John pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s curls as he leaned in to run his nose along his cheek. “I love when you get up all posh, Prince William. I’ve wanted you since we got here.” John growled in his ear. “I can’t wait to strip you bare, and shag you senseless.” 

Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath was reward enough for John, but he leaned in to take his mouth in a ravaging kiss just the same. Generally Sherlock hated being called “Prince William,” but when John dropped it occasionally into bedroom talk, it seemed to push a button in his love that John sooo enjoyed pushing.

“You naughty boy. I bet you’ve been out there flirting up Victor Trevor again haven’t you? I should whip your arse for that alone.” John moved to gnaw along Sherlock’s jaw, nipping at the soft skin under his ear. 

“Jooohn,” Sherlock moaned, arching his neck to give John better access. 

John rocked forward sliding his swelling cock over the answering length of Sherlock beneath him. It felt so good. He could almost come just doing this he thought as a red haze descended over his vision. He rocked back and forth, listening to the broken sounds coming from Sherlock. His pleasure was rising, ah such bliss as they moved together, lovely friction of cloth sliding over heat and need, just there, ah . . . a loud knock at the door was like cold water dashed over the senses.

“Bleeding Gods.” John cursed and pulled off Sherlock to stalk to the door. He wrenched it open only to find Lady Ada Summerset in the hallway looking surprised at the door's sudden opening. 

“Oh, Lord John. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad moment.” 

“Lady Ada.” John dropped a hand casually before his front to better hide his flagging, but still visible erection. He cleared his throat politely. “No, it’s fine. Did you need something?”

“I was just wondering if you were going to the luncheon. My spouses aren’t feeling well, and they’re having trays brought to the room. I was hoping to find someone to go down with. If you’re busy though . . .” 

“No, no, don't worry. Are your spouses very ill? If they need a healer I could help.” John wrinkled up his brow in concern.

“Oh no, nothing like that, really I think they’re just tired, and wanted a bit of a break. I fancied some company though, and they told me to go on.” Ada smiled shyly looking suddenly much younger in her high-waisted light green frock. “I just wondered if you were free. To be honest these old corridors give me the willies . . .”

“Lady Ada.” Sherlock had appeared to stand behind John in the doorway. 

“Oh, I’ve interrupted you.” Lady Ada paled. “Please don’t worry. I didn’t mean to be a bother.”

“No, not at all. We were just about to go down ourselves.” John smiled broadly at her. “Just give us a few minutes to freshen up and we’ll be happy to join you.” 

“If you’re quite sure?” Ada hedged.

“The pleasure of your company would make the trip downstairs infinitely brighter.” John assured her.

“Splendid.” Ada smiled again. “I’ll meet you at the main stairs.” 

“Excellent.” John said. “We’ll see you in a tick.”

“John.” Sherlock sighed as he closed the door, and turned to face him.

“I know, I’m sorry. Terrible timing.” John said putting both hands up. “I remember when I first followed you home, and had no idea what I was doing amidst all the Quality at the palace. I always swore if I ever saw anyone in a similar place, I would help them out.” 

“John she’s hardly a stray kitten to be brought home.” Sherlock huffed .

“No, certainly not, but she’s good people, and we were going down in a few minutes anyway.” John reached out to hold a palm to Sherlock’s cheek. “Do you mind terribly, love?”

“All right, John, fine.” Sherlock’s shoulders slumped, and John felt like a heel. 

“Later, though? Can we pick this back up?”

“Of course, my love.” Sherlock agreed, and they set to tidying themselves as quickly as possible to be presentable for polite company. 

“John.” Sherlock stopped him with a hand to his shoulder before they left the room. A sudden fierce look had flared in his eyes. “Promise me I get to have you later.”

“You always have me, love, but I promise we can shag each other senseless as soon as humanly possible.” John brushed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips, and that seemed to mollify the man. John sighed and held the door open for them.

 

~ o ~

 

Luncheon was an elaborate buffet affair served in the largest dining room with extra seating on the glassed-in porch area. John was happy to let Sherlock swan off to find seats while he accompanied Lady Ada through the lines.

“John, I really want to thank you for letting me attach myself to you . . . and Prince William. I know it isn’t becoming at all, but I hardly know a soul here.” 

“Neither do I, really.” John agreed in a whisper snagging a serving of meatballs in sauce. “These nobles, they’re all related or grew up in each other’s back pockets. It’s a small club.”

“I know.” Ada said, selecting her own food. “I love my spouses dearly, I do, but they’re older than I am, and they’re background is so much more posh than mine.”

“Lord Colin swept you off your feet?” John asked with a wink.

“Well, no. Actually it was Sharon.” Ada giggled. “But I fell for Colin when I met him later. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything, but sometimes at gatherings like these when they aren’t around, I’m all at loose ends.”

“Well, Lady Ada, I appreciate the company.” John smiled. 

“Same, Lord John.” Ada smiled back as they finished loading their plates. John had an extra job of juggling to do, ferrying one plate for himself and another for Sherlock. Finally satisfied, they turned, carrying their spoils toward the tables. 

“Do you always do that?” Ada asked quietly nodding at the plates as John scanned the crowd for a mop of dark curls. “Play the servant for Prince William?”

“It’s not like that. He just isn't one for crowds, and he’s not much of an eater. If I left him to his own devices he’d live on tea and air.”

“He’s a very lucky man to have you.” Ada said. 

“I’m the lucky one, truly.” John returned with a half shrug. “He’s saved my life – a few times over. Ah, there he is now.” John locked onto the dark head at a table to the side, and steered Ada over to join him. “Here you go, love.” John said setting Sherlock's plate down before him. “I found those deviled egg things you like so much.” 

“John, thank you.” Was all Sherlock said in reply, but the melting look he sent spoke eloquently all on its own. 

Even though it wasn’t the done thing for polite company, John couldn’t help dropping a quick kiss to Sherlock’s forehead before taking the chair next to him. 

“Oh you two, you’re adorable.” Ada smiled sliding in next to John’s other side.

It looked as if they might manage a quiet meal until Lord Victor Trevor, Lady Kitty Riley, and her friend, a busty woman decked in the latest fashion, Lady Penelope Buskwhite, showed up to join them .

“Do you mind?” Victor asked without waiting for a reply, plopping into the seat next to Sherlock, and nodding at his entourage to take the remaining chairs. In almost no time, he and Sherlock were off on a tear impersonating the various lords who had been on the grouse shoot that morning to the women’s laughing delight. One man had nearly blown the head off his neighbor, a mistake that would have been a tragedy if he had actually managed it, but had now became an amusing tale to share. John sighed, and glanced at the meal on his plate, his appetite suddenly dropping off. 

“So what’s on for this evening’s entertainment?” Lady Ada asked during a lull. “I must have lost my schedule card – I can’t find the dratted thing anywhere.”

“I do believe it’s the Fortunes and Forfeits party.” Kitty said. 

“Indeed." Lady Penelope nodded. "Kitty dear, do you remember the fortune-telling games we used to play at school?” She asked nudging her friend in the side. “There was that one with the bowls.” 

"Oh, that old thing." Kitty rolled her eyes.

“I’m not sure I’m familiar with that.” Ada said tilting her head slightly. “How do you play it?”

“It was dreadful.” Lady Penelope said widening her eyes. “There were so many chances for a bad fortune. You’d have three bowls, one with clear water, one with soapy water, and one with dirt. You’d blindfold the person playing, and have them stick their hands into one of the bowls.” Lady Penelope counted off the three fortunes on her fingers as she remembered them. “If they chose the clear water, it meant a good marriage would come, the soapy water meant a celibate life for the temple, and a bowl with dirt meant an early grave.” Penelope shuddered slightly setting her large bosoms just visible at her low neckline jiggling. “Sometimes the girls would play awful tricks, and give anyone who was unpopular three bowls filled with nothing but dirt.”

“And who knew that regardless of what you chose, you could end up with all three?” Kitty said bitterly, reaching for her wine glass. “How foolish we all were back then thinking there were fairytale endings waiting for us outside the schoolroom.”

“Oh, Kitty.” Her friend chided, clucking her tongue.

“I remember some other fortune-telling games like that growing up.” Ada said before the mood at the table could grow too glum. “Girls in my town would peel apples and throw the strips over their shoulder, and it was meant to land and make initials of their love-to-be. Really though, you could find any letter you fancied if you squinted the right way.”

“Oh, that reminds me of something my sister did one Hallow's Eve.” John said. “Though maybe I shouldn’t tell this tale on myself.” 

“Well, you can’t say that and back out now, Lord John. Spill.” Kitty demanded with a twitch of her lips.

“Well, there was some fortune-telling stuff they used to do around my village too. Everyone said that on All Hallow’s Eve if you went down the cellar steps backwards and looked into a mirror or walked to still water alone at midnight, you could see the face of your 'true love revealed.' I was never sure how that was supposed to work though – wouldn’t you just see your own reflection?"

"Oh, I heard of that too." Ada said. "I think you were supposed to see your true love's face reflected over your shoulder." 

"Hmm, still weird if you ask me." John wrinkled his brow. "Anyway, my sister, Harriet, got it into her mind one All Hallow’s to try it out for herself. She had plans to go down to the old mill pond near our house at midnight to look into the water, and try her chances. Of course she made the grand mistake of telling people about it beforehand. 

Me and a mate got the bright idea of getting there before her to give her a good scare. We waited in the grasses for her quiet as mice. Then as soon as we saw her candle by the pond, we started up, moaning and howling like a band of demons. Poor Harry, she screamed so hard, she almost fell into the water. You wouldn’t believe how fast she made it back home. Of course we were stupid enough to laugh about it later where she could hear us. I think I’ve still got some scars from the thumping she gave me.” John grimaced, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

At least everyone was smiling again when Ada swatted at his arm. “Oh, shame on you! Brothers can be such beastly things, can't they?” She chuckled. 

“I was a right heartless bastard, but then I was only eleven at the time.” John flashed her a grin. 

Sherlock's hand stole across John’s thigh, and John turned at the gentle pressure.

“You never told me about that.” Sherlock's eyes had gone soft. 

“I’m a man of surprises.” John said.

“My mother made the mistake of hiring an ACTUAL fortune-teller for an All Hallow’s party one year.” Lord Trevor leaned in to contribute.

“Oh, that must have gone well.” Kitty snorted wryly.

“About as badly as you’d imagine." Victor shrugged. "After she told a duchess that her husband would cheat on her with three women in the coming year, a lord that he would soon lose his entire fortune, and my mother's best friend that her father would die in a fortnight, well, my mother paid her and bustled her right out the back door. After that, she only hired puppeteers and musicians for entertainment.”

Everyone was still snickering over that when Lord Basketville appeared to loom over the table. “Oh, you all seem to be enjoying yourselves, good, good. All is in order? How about the bird shoot this morning? Top notch, what? Cook will probably have some tasty grouse pie for us all later!” The man prattled on hardly listening to anyone’s answers before asking Sherlock and John to come with him. “Please forgive me for stealing Prince William and Healer John away from you, but if you two gentlemen are finished eating, there’s a matter we wanted to discuss further?”

“Yes, indeed, Lord Basketville, lead the way.” Sherlock intoned imperiously. “If you’ll please excuse us.” He bowed to the rest of the table. “John, shall we?”

“Yes, of course.” John said rising to join him. 

“Lord John, I hope we’ll see you two later at the Fortunes party this evening?” Kitty winked at John over the table. “Do say you’ll be there.” 

“We’ll certainly try our best, Lady Kitty.” John said, and hurried to follow after the retreating backs of Sherlock and Lord Basketville as they strode from the dining room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact:  
> I gave Victor Trevor the middle names of the two men who shamelessly broke my heart once. I've had the best revenge though. I'm having a wonderful life now, thanks. Nyah nyah.


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games at Basketville hall . . . until it isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to those who tried to read this chapter earlier. I had trouble formatting the text correctly. 
> 
> To those reading this later -- oooh, look. A shiny new chapter!
> 
> \----  
> Also, the more I write Victor Trevor in this fic, the more I've decided I want Dan Stevens from Downton Abbey to play him in the movie adaptation. For Reasons. ;)

~ o ~

 

True to her word, Mrs. Garrott secured them a small downstairs parlour for interrogating the Basketvilles' servants. It was a drafty little room made only a tad more cheery by a crackling fire in the grate, but it served its purpose. Lord Basketville stayed long enough to see the preceedings underway, slapping Sherlock on the back, and declaring him a "jolly good detective," before swanning off to more pleasant pursuits.

Even with a relatively small staff to investigate, it still took most of the afternoon, and partway into the evening before they wrapped things up.  Sherlock had just been contemplating starting over, calling a few of the servants back in pairs to see if any stories changed, when Lady Basketville bustled in, wringing her hands.

“I do so appreciate your help with this matter, Prince William, my husband and I are both in your debt, but I need all my staff, we have a _party_ in just under an hour, sir.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Lady Basketville. We’re finished here.” Sherlock flashed her a shallow smile, and allowed her to herd the last chamber maid they’d been questioning from the room.

“Urgh.” John stood to stretch as the door closed, pressing the heels of his hands into his lower back. “That took all day.” He sighed.

“Couldn’t be helped. We had to be thorough.” Sherlock extended his own long legs in front of him.

They’d easily settled into the “good copper/bad copper” routine with John smiling as he chatted with the nervous staff while Sherlock’s pale eyes glittered like a panther waiting for just the right moment to strike with a question that laid them bare.

“Well, what do you think? Expert opinion - who’s behind all this ghost business?” John raised an eyebrow, waiting for the insight that would blow the case wide open.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock admitted, tilting his head back to regard him through narrowed eyes.

“Oh, now there’s a first. Truly, we learned nothing here?” John frowned.

“On the contrary, we learned plenty here, John.” Sherlock whirled to his feet to pace about the room. “Surely you noticed how guilty the tall footman, Thompson, looked. I surmise he’ll be asking for the hand of that kitchen girl, Sarah, and giving notice to go work with his cousin the blacksmith any day now. The head butler, Wilson, is nearly deaf, the new cooks are already stealing from the wine supplies, none of the servants beyond the housekeeper and the groundskeeper have been here longer than seven years, and you like the shape of that stable boy’s arse.” Sherlock flicked cool blue eyes his way.

“What, Jonathan?” John huffed a laugh. There was no point in dissembling when the great Sherlock Holmes was hot on the scent of something. “You were a little hard on him because of it too, weren’t you? You jealous thing.” John stepped forward to catch Sherlock up in his arms, pulling him close for a squeeze. “You’ve no reason to fret, you know. Your arse remains unparalleled in my book.” He smiled as he let his hands slip down to cup said favoured backside.

Sherlock harrumphed, but let himself relax into John’s embrace, laying his chin down on the shorter man’s shoulder. “I should have gotten more than that with the interviews. It’s frustrating.”

“We did learn that the nanny has seen the ghost. What twice in the playroom late at night?” John said. “She didn’t mention that earlier. That has to be significant.”

Sherlock leaned back to meet John’s gaze. “Yes, that’s true. Miss Kettleton obviously didn’t want to let the Basketvilles know about it, and possibly risk her position.” Sherlock chewed at his lower lip, then pulled away to flop back onto the settee. “The housekeeper is definitely involved in it even if she isn’t personally doing the mischief - that much we can be sure of. None of the staff is helping her though. They’re all genuinely afraid of or fascinated by the ‘haunt.’ Collective blindness.” Sherlock waved absentmindedly in disgust. “It’s so obviously human hands walking off with the trinkets and food that keeps disappearing from the manor. We just have to find out who. I think we need to concentrate on the guests next. See if any of them might have a reason to bedevil the Basketvilles.”

“Fair enough.” John said taking the seat beside him. “Looks like we’ve just enough time to get ready for this ‘Fortunes and Forfeits’ party tonight.”

“Ugh.” Sherlock sighed. “If we must. I didn’t get a chance at luncheon to question those from the grouse shoot about Victor and Croque’s little glad-handing escapades either. I suppose we can kill two birds with one stone as it were.”

“Indeed. And for a side benefit, I’m certain you’ve got some splendid new outfit to wear. I’m quite looking forward to seeing your arse in it tonight.” John shot him a sly sideways glance.

“Ah, well. The evening won’t be a completely tedious enterprise then.” Sherlock said, taking to his feet again. “Yes, let’s get into our battle gear. I quite fancy seeing you in some ruffles as well. I had Goodson pack you some _delightful_ things.” He purred with a smile that had turned simply predatory, holding a palm out to help John up. A lesser man might have quailed in the face of such a leer, but John only laughed and took the offered hand.

“I can only imagine.” He said shaking his head as Sherlock pulled him upright. As a rule, John loathed overly fussy clothes, but for Sherlock, anything. “All right then, good sir, lead on.” John waved an open hand toward whatever new folly awaited them.

 

~ o ~

 

It was silly to be so in love with a midnight-blue suit, John thought as they thanked Goodson, and left their bedroom to head downstairs. Since he had grand plans for peeling it off Sherlock in exacting detail later though, John was content to be simply be enthralled with way the dark fabric hugged his form, stretching across the wide span of his shoulders as he moved. Sadly, his love’s backside was covered by the long tails of the jacket, but if they ever had a few minutes uninterrupted, John was determined to show his husband just how much he still fancied that lovely arse. He was pleased that his own outfit wasn’t as froufrou as he had feared, though it boasted more embroidery and lace at the sleeves than he usually liked. Still if one wanted to be taken seriously by the Quality, certain apparel was simply de rigueur for blending in.

John cursed under his breath as he nearly stumbled in the dark corridor keeping up with Sherlock. The servants had been so preoccupied with their investigations all afternoon, they’d only managed to light a few main wall sconces come nightfall. The scant illumination left the old manor feeling even more gloomy than usual, and though John didn’t often give in to flights of fancy, he couldn’t quite shake the sense of a brooding menace gathering in the shadows. It felt as though some boogeyman imagined in childhood’s cupboards might be waiting in the next dark corner to leap out and make its long-dreaded existence known for certain. John shook his head at his silly notions, but breathed a bit easier when they reached the better lit stairwell all the same.

“So what’s the battle plan?” John whispered as they reached the ground floor.

“Talk with any neighbors, and those who frequent the estate often.” Sherlock returned quietly. “See if anyone here has a grudge against the family. Oh, and keep Victor busy. I want him out of the way whilst I question the men who were at the hunt yesterday.”

“Me? Keep Victor busy? Really, I . . .” John had much more to say on the matter, but a very fashionable-looking couple, a Lord and Lady Ramsbottom joined them in the corridor at that moment cutting things short. They were forced instead to chat amiably about the latest weather before entering the parlour where the party was already in full swing.

The large parlour had been transformed in to an autumn delight. Garlands of red and gold autumn leaves twined across the doorways, and windows, while a new crop of small tables with purple tablecloths thrown over them had sprung up to fill the space. An ancestors’ altar graced a far wall with its set of shelves tastefully decorated with the usual portraits, and candles for the dead. The room was dimmer than it had been previously, but a number of twinkling tealights in grinning skull holders scattered about the room added to the festive air. 

Already, a small queue had formed for the mysterious-looking individuals swathed in veils with cards or tiles spread on the tables before them. Fortune-tellers. John snorted at the drama of it. It was all tricks and fun as so few of the mediums who frequented parties had any far-seeing talent. Though as John recalled from the earlier conversation with Victor Trevor, so often people didn’t REALLY want to know what fate had in store for them. Pretty party games were much more the ticket.

A servant, one of the younger footmen broke his observations as he stopped in front of them with a platter of drinks. “May I offer you some refreshment, Your Graces?”

By no means did John possess the near perfect memory that Sherlock boasted, but he remembered from their earlier interviews that the youth was called Samuel, and had worked here less than a year. He had lost both of his parents to a lung sickness the previous winter, and without their guidance, was unable to keep the family candle-making business going. He’d been only too grateful to join the Basketvilles’ staff at the last hiring fair.

“None for me. Red wine gives me gas.” Lady Ramsbottom waved him off, and even Sherlock seemed not to notice the servant in front of them as he continued scanning the room for his plan of engagement.

“Thank you.” John smiled at the lad, and took a glass from his tray, more to be polite than because he actually wanted a drink. He felt as if he’d had more alcohol this weekend than he had the whole previous year put together. The drink was spicy, some kind of wine punch, and it washed over his tongue with a pleasant tingle. The footman nodded at John, and moved on to the next knot of guests.

“There, we’re in luck.” Sherlock nudged John as he whispered by his ear. “Victor, and Croque are together at a gaming table. Go join them. Be a diversion.”

“Fine.” John sighed. “But just for you.”

“My brave John.” Sherlock winked, and with a surreptitious pat to John’s arse under his coat tails, the tall man was off, stalking across the room to greet a group of aristocrats, his entire demeanor shifting to ooze charm.

John felt a spike of something dark shoot through him at watching Sherlock slip into his “man about town” act. It wasn’t real. John knew that, of course. He reminded himself that only he got to see the real face behind all the masks that his love wore. Well, except for Irene - dear Irene of the sharp whip and clever mind. John knew that he and Sherlock had a perfectly lovely sex life, when they had time for each other, of course, but there was something about what Sherlock and Irene shared, the darker pleasure/pain, that niggled at him. In his more unsettled moments, John worried that Sherlock might grow bored with the tamer things they shared. John took another healthy swallow of his drink, and watched Sherlock’s progress across the room.

Sherlock had wrapped his hand around the arm of a broad-set man, and was cheerfully steering him toward the fireplace for a cozy chat. John nearly growled at the sight of it. The gloomy manor, this damned ghost business, and all his mugging for the silly beau monde – it must be affecting him more than he realized. He allowed himself the luxury of a small sigh.

Another servant with a tray of hors d'oeuvres passed by (Grace this one was called, worked here two years) and John tossed back the rest of his drink to exchange his empty glass for a white square thing topped with leaves, and something pink and squidgy on a cracker. Reminding himself that an army moved on its stomach, John swallowed the odd food down in a few quick bites to taste it less. Feeling somewhat buoyed, John squared his shoulders and made his way over to the gaming table where Antoine Croque, Victor Trevor, and a several of the bright birds at the party had all flocked to preen.

“Lord John.” Victor was of course the first to greet him with a clap to the shoulder. “Just the man we needed to help round out our group. John glanced about the table, and almost groaned aloud. Of course Lady Basketville, her hair tucked up into a chic green turban, was holding court at the centre of things. A simple card game would be out of the question now.

“Yes, yes indeed. Healer Watson-Holmes, come join us for Forfeits.” Lady Basketville pointed John toward an open spot. “We’re sitting boy, girl, boy, girl, and no couples together!” She trilled.

John refrained from commenting that if he had only women to each side, there was no way he and his husband could be sat together, and merely took his chair with a small, forced smile. He nodded amiably enough to Monsieur Croque a few seats down.

“How are you feeling, sir?” Croque asked. “We . . . , um, that is I was most concerned for you last night. Prince William assured me that you were much improved today.”

“Yes, I’m quite back to good, thank you.” John said trying not to colour up remembering the way he had so inelegantly face planted into the furniture the previous evening. “I must simply plead guilty of overindulging in the fine wine available at dinner. I’m not usually so clumsy.”

“Ah, it happens to the best of us, _mon ami._ ” Croque nodded understandingly.

“One more, room for one more. We need one more female to finish the table.” The lady of the manor called out to the other partygoers.

“Ah, so you are _Healer_ Watson-Holmes?” The woman next to John whispered sotto voce. It was the woman from the pair who they’d greeted in the hall not moments ago. The feather at the side of her stylish hat bobbed as she leaned in conspiratorially.

“Yes, yes I am. Lady . . .” Her name had escaped him already.

“Lady Ramsbottom.” She supplied in a slightly annoyed tone. “We met recently, in the corridor.”

“Lady Ramsbottom, yes, so sorry, my memory isn’t as good as it once was. How nice . . . erm . . . to see you again.”

“Indeed. Healer Watson-Holmes, I don’t usually do this but I was wondering if I could ask you about a pain I’ve been having recently . . . it travels, and . . .”

John let the small smile on his face freeze in place. It was a trap that could happen at any gathering or party a healer found themselves in. Eventually someone wanted off-the-cuff medical advice, perhaps a quick healing in the corner if it wasn’t too much trouble. It was one of the first things they learned in training to avoid. If you did a healing on someone, you were then connected with them – legally if not morally. What seemed like a simple kindness could roll into a morass of mistakes from one well-meaning act. Whatever Lady Ramsbottom was describing could be anything from arthritis to nerve disease. John waited for a break in her litany of small sufferings to jump in.

“Well, honestly, madam, it might be nothing, or it might be symptoms of something worth checking on. Either way, you should really see your regular healer. They’ll have a comprehensive health history on you, and can do a much better job of helping you than my limited scope could manage.”

“Oh, of course, Healer.” Lady Ramsbottom looked extremely disappointed, but there was no help for it.

“Really, it’s probably nothing.” John said, reaching over to pat her wrist. “I wouldn’t worry, but it always pays to check in with your healer if it continues, just in case.” John was spared anymore polite tap dancing by the arrival of Kitty Riley who Lady Basketville had managed to hook and reel in with her animated waving.

“What have I missed?” Kitty asked somewhat breathlessly plopping down on the padded chair between John and Antoine Croque.

“Nothing, dear lady, we were merely waiting for your enchanting presence before we could begin.” M. Croque leaned in to curl a smile her way.

Kitty shifted closer to match Antoine’s curve, fluttering a hand to her neck as she laughed lightly. “Good thing I didn’t linger overlong at my hair dressing this evening.”

“Ah, beauty such as yours requires little gilding to look magnificent.” Croque assured her as John tried to not to roll his eyes at such obvious posturing.

“You’re stealing my lines Antoine.” Victor Trevor smirked, and Kitty giggled even louder.

“Thank you so much for joining us, Lady Riley.” Lady Basketville called over the table. “Now, the game tonight is Forfeits. I trust all know the rules?” She asked looking brightly around the group.

When Croque admitted he was new to the parlour pastime, Lady Basketville quickly explained the rules. Each player must put an item – some small article of clothing or trinket at the center of the table. A person serving as judge would sit with their eyes closed, as another player acting as assistant, picked an item to hang over their head. The judge then, without peeking, would issue a challenge that the article’s owner must enact to reclaim their lost possession.

“I’ll go first as judge, shall I?” Lady Basketville said brightly. “Who wishes to play assistant?”

“I’ll be happy to, Lily.” Lady Ramsbottom answered, rising to help with the game.

“Oh thank you, Martha. Come stand just here.” Lady Baskerville said, indicating a spot next to her seat.

“Good for you, Pet, you’ll do an excellent job.” Lord Ramsbottom chimed in from across the table.

Everyone searched about their person for some small bauble they might part with. Resigned, John fished inside his pockets, and pulled out a handkerchief that he tossed onto the growing pile. Almost instantly he remembered the worth of it though. The handkerchief was something Sherlock had given him shortly after their first meeting. He leaned forward to grab it back, but was stopped by a smart rap to the his knuckles from the fan Kitty Riley was adding to the mix.

“Ow.” John cried, dropping the handkerchief back to the pile.

“Now, now, Lord John. No take backs.” Kitty wagged a finger at him.

John grimaced more than smiled as he sat back in his seat. When another footman (Oliver, been here three years) happened by with a tray of drinks, John helped himself to yet another glass of punch feeling sure he needed the extra fortification to survive the night. He looked longingly at a nearby table where he spied the Summersets with a group that had started a rousing game of Hearts.

_"Heavy, heavy hangs over thy head._

_What shall the owner do to redeem the forfeit?"_

Lady Ramsbottom chanted the game’s required words as she dangled Kitty’s fan above Lady Basketville.

“I think a Grecian statue is in order.” The woman of the manor said thoughtfully, her eyes screwed tightly shut, “and the person to the left must do the sculpting.”

The table chuckled as Lady Kitty squealed. “Oh that’s me. And you Lord John.” She turned to bat her eyelashes at him.” 

“Oh, erm, all right. What am I meant to do exactly?” John drew his brows together.

Kitty popped to her feet. “You must pose me, sir, like a classical statue.”

“Right.” John rose with his shoulders back as if preparing to enter some skirmish, and adjusted his coat, tugging it down firmly. He contemplated the giggling woman before him. “So . . .” He trailed off looking to Kitty for help.

“Direct my limbs into a pose.” Kitty whispered from the side of her mouth.

“Ah, right.” John hesitated. He stepped forward, gingerly lifting one of Kitty’s arms that she had let go pliant until he had it over her head. He let go, and she kept it there. “Erm, is that all right then?” The woman wore some musky perfume that wasn’t unpleasant, and John found himself inhaling deeper.

“Whatever you please, good sir. I am bound to follow.” Kitty purred, regarding him from under half-lidded eyes.

John felt himself blushing as he quickly lifted her other arm in a line away from her torso. He stepped back, surveying his work. “There we go, one . . . erm, statue.”

“No fair!” A woman across the table called. “She has to be on one foot.”

“Now, now, there’s no rule that says that.” Lady Basketville magnanimously waved the comment away. “That will do. Here’s your fan Lady Riley. You may be the next judge.”

John was relieved when they were allowed to retake their seats, and he relaxed fractionally until he saw Lady Ramsbottom plucking up his handkerchief to hold over Lady Riley’s head next. _Gods._

_"Heavy, heavy hangs over thy head._

_What shall the owner do to redeem the forfeit?"_ Lady Ramsbottom repeated almost reverently.

“Hmmm,” Kitty mused with eyes closed, one finger tapping to her lips. She was clearly enjoying the temporary power. “A kiss, I think.” Kitty decided. “You must kiss the person to your left to regain your item.” She opened her eyes, and laughed a delighted titter when she saw that John was her victim. John's heart sank when he turned to look past Lady Ramsbottom’s empty chair only to find Lord Victor Trevor on his left.

Victor, the arrogant thing, waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Ah, my dear little Healer, we have to stop meeting like this.”

“Victor . . .” John began, shaking his head. He considered passing on his turn, but a glance back at the treasured square of cloth clutched in Lady Ramsbottom’s fingers changed his mind.

“Oh come now, don’t look so glum.” Victor chided him. “I don’t bite. Much.”

“Oh, Great Gods.” John said, annoyed that he had somehow wandering into an adult version of “spin the bottle.” He slid over to the empty seat next to Trevor with a sigh.

“Here, Lord John. Give us a little buss.” Victor teased, tilting his head to better angle that elegant jaw his way.

 _“_ Fine” John said, and leaned in to plant a small kiss to Victor’s cheek. As he moved in though, the smug git turned at the last moment to catch John’s mouth with his. It was a dirty trick, and John had only done it once, well maybe twice himself.

Though initially surprised, John quickly forgot himself as the man's mouth moved so sweetly against him. Victor’s breath smelled spicy from the punch they were all drinking, and John parted his lips without thinking. Victor seized the opportunity to dart inside, and John met the questing tongue with a heat of his own. John turned the tide, chasing his way back into Victor's mouth, weaving fingers into the hair at his nape to better anchor him. Victor groaned, his hands fisting into John's coat. They shifted slightly for a better angle, and the kiss deepened into something subterranean. When they finally broke apart, panting for breath, it was to good natured laughter all around.

Victor’s wide blue eyes looked as startled as he felt, but John gathered himself together first, and he turned to bow and wave to their appreciative audience. “Thank you, thank you all so much.” He intoned quite regally – he’d certainly had genuine role models to copy.

“Well, I’d say Healer Watson-Holmes has certainly earned his kerchief.” Lady Basketville said in clear astonishment. “Pass it over Martha, and you, sir, will be our next judge. 

John didn’t risk glancing back at Victor as he returned to his chair, and he quickly closed his eyes to announce the next challenge. He made it as bland as he could, declaring the next player should rub their stomach and pat their head at the same time to retrieve their forfeit. Lord Ramsbottom stood to comply, and amidst much joshing, passed the test to win back his opal cravat pin. John managed not to meet anyone’s eye through the next few tasks that involved players barking like a dog at the prettiest woman in the room, giving a one minute speech on undergarments without pause, and complimenting the person on the right half a dozen times without using the letter “e” in any of the words. When all the tasks were completed and the forfeited items returned, the audience that had gathered around them applauded.

“Another round, who’s for another round?” Lady Basketville called, and John took the opportunity to slip away.

“Not for me, thanks.” John mumbled, and happily relinquished his chair to a fellow who wanted to join the game in his stead. 

John moved away from the table as quickly as he could, catching another cup of punch from a passing servant – Samuel again, and tried to wash away the taste of Victor from his mouth. Sadly the flavour of the punch simply served to reinforce the feel of the spice-laden kiss on his lips. John sighed and scanned the room for Sherlock, spotting him deep in conversation with a couple in the corner. Not wanting to interrupt, John drifted over to study the Basketvilles' altar for the dead instead. Most families put one up somewhere in their homes over the week of Hallowtide. This altar boasted a fine collection of small painted portraits of the family’s aristocratic ancestors – all high collars and powdered wigs. The lower shelf held the usual offering items –fruit and sweets, a box of incense cones, white candles burning in glass holders, and the polished stones for the unknown dead. Poorer families rarely had portraits of their departed to display, but small keepsakes like granda’s favourite pipe, or auntie’s knitting needles served the purpose of remembrance well enough. John took another sip from his glass of punch, and deciding he’d grown tired of its cloying sweetness, set it to a side table.

He turned toward the altar to bow to the marble statues of Thanatos and his mother Heketi, and noticed the homely collection of baby booties arranged at the feet of the Goddess. John wondered if they were small reminders of the many miscarriages of the previous Lady Basketville, but if so, who was putting them out now that the lady herself was gone. Lord Basketville didn’t strike him as the sentimental type. Perhaps the current Lady did it as a kindness. It reminded John that even the rich and noble were not sheltered from the pain of losing loved ones.

John took up an incense cone and held it to the flame of one of the candles. Once it lit, he blew it out to smoke, and placed it on the offering plate next to Heketi. Some called the Goddess 'the Crone, Lady of destruction,' others honored her as 'Dark Mother' - she who welcomes the weary traveler home at the end of his journey. John felt both titles were apropo of the powerful Goddess. After sketching the triple sign to both Heketi and Thanatos, touching his forehead, heart, and lips in turn, John whispered a quick prayer for the dead. He felt more than saw a person draw up behind him as he finished. 

“So many people enjoy the lights and the fun of the holiday, but not everyone remembers the dead as they should.” It was that woman, Mary Morstan, who had come to join him, casting her eyes about the altar as well.

“Do you remember the dead, Miss Morstan?” John asked lightly.

“Every day. I have great respect for the dead.” She answered quietly. After a quick bow toward the Gods, she reaching into the bowl of pebbles, selecting a flat black one to leave at the feet of Thanatos. The intensity of the gaze Miss Morstan swung toward John was so at odds with the pretty floral gown, and soft curls about her face, it sent a shiver up John's spine. “It’s said that our own death follows us always, walking at our left side to shadow all the steps of our life.”

“Ah, I’ve heard that tale too.” John nodded. “I believe it’s meant to remind us that life is precious, and we shouldn’t take any of it for granted.”

“I always took it to mean that any of us could die at any moment.” She said with a small shrug.

“There is that side of it too.” John agreed amiably. “But focusing too much on death robs life of its joy and its purpose.”

“And what purpose would that be?” Mary asked, tipping her head slightly as a curious expression stole over her features.

There was something of the lost soul about this woman, something that reminded John of Sherlock and how literally he could take things at times. John felt a kindness bubbling up for her as he leaned in and put a hand to her shoulder. “I think it’s different for each of us, don’t you? We all need to find our own purpose.”

Mary looked to answer, but at that moment, the footman called Oliver passing with a new tray of drinks, stumbled as the butler brushed past him to announce dinner. John watched in almost slow motion as the servant tripped, his collection of drinks sliding toward John, Mary, and the beautifully-laid altar. Mary merely glanced his way, and with a flick of her hand, the red liquid miraculously stayed in the cups as Oliver grabbed at his tray, just managing to right it before true tragedy unfolded. 

“Whew, Bleeding Gods, that was close.” Oliver exclaimed, horrified to find himself cursing before guests on top of nearly destroying the family altar.

“No worries.” John assured him, and watched as the lad ducked his head, and hurried off to redeem his near mishap with more focused work elsewhere.

“You’re a Water Mage, aren’t you, Miss Morstan?” John asked, cocking an eyebrow her way. 

“Shh, I don’t like it to get out.” She said, a small smile finally playing over her lips. 

“Why ever not?”

“You grew up in a small town, did you not, Lord John? You know it’s not like Delphium in the back country. It’s all well and good to be a _Healer._ People just love their healers and their charm bracelets, don’t they? But what about those with other talents? Well, just let a good drought happen, or a fire, or a sickness pass through the cattle or the crops, and suddenly anyone with a bit of Mage talent is being looked at with the side-eye. You know they still hang people as witches in some backwoods areas.”

“That was years and years ago!” John said. “Things are different now.”

“Are they?” Mary eyed him. “A man with fortune telling skill was killed just last year in Glockenshire for predicting a murder. The judge accused him of being involved in it, and they hanged him good and proper.”

“I didn’t know about that.” John said quietly. “Why wasn’t it investigated?”

“Well, of course it was investigated.” Mary snorted. “Justice doesn’t bring the dead back though, does it?’

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” John agreed, tipping his head. “So, tell me Miss Morstan, you are a curious one - what do you do when you aren’t breaking into brothels, or enduring tedious house parties?”

Mary looked to be gathering the answer she wanted to give when none other than Victor Trevor swooped in to join them. John watched as Mary nearly shimmered in transformation at his arrival. In the blink of an eye, a much smaller, softer woman stood beside him.

“Why, Lord Trevor, how nice to see you again.” Mary simpered as dimples appeared in her cheeks. “How are you this fine evening?”

Victor, who hadn't seemed to notice the shift at all, merely leaned to smile over her. “Quite well, Miss Morstan, and may I say what a pleasure it is to find someone as lovely as yourself here. You brighten any room with your shining face.” He lifted her hand to drop a kiss to it.

“Oh you’re too kind, sir.” She smiled, batting her eyes.

John was still absorbing her sudden change when Victor rounded on him. “So Lord John, what diabolical plots are you brewing over here to besmirch the honour of sweet Miss Morstan?”

While John was sputtering up an answer, Mary bubbled a tinkling laugh, waving Victor off.

“Oh, you make a silly jest, Lord Trevor. Surely you can see we were merely honoring the dead as befits a holy day? Besides I was just leaving. If you’ll please excuse me, Your Graces.” With that Mary bobbed a quick curtsy, and scurried over to join the crowd moving toward supper.

“You didn’t need to chase her off.” John said, crossing his arms over his chest to peer up at the man.

“Yes, I did. Three’s a crowd.” Victor chuckled moving closer. “Well, that’s one question answered for me.” He added in a voice sinking down to a much lower register.

John hated feeding straight lines to buffoons, but it seemed called for, so he indulged the looming git. “Oh, and what would that be, pray tell?”

“I can see why Prince William doesn’t need to go bed hopping these days with one such as you at home.”

“I sincerely doubt that you see much beyond your own handsome nose, Lord Trevor, and really it’s none of your business, is it?” John snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“Oh ho, so you find my nose handsome, do you, little Healer?” Victor moved even closer until said nose was only a whisper away from his own. He lifted a hand to lay gentle fingers under John’s jaw, tilting it up just a hitch further than it already was. “Admit it. You liked my attentions.”

Looking into Victor’s guilelessly-wide blue eyes was like watching the coils of a swaying cobra poised to strike. John was near mesmerized. He parted his lips but whether it was to say something cutting, or to fall back into the curving mouth that hovered just above his own wasn’t quite clear at the moment. When John felt Victor’s other hand curving over his hip, a breath he’d been holding escaped in a huff, and his eyes slid shut. He wasn’t expecting the arc of desire that shot straight through him like a lance.

“Victor, no . . . I . . .” 

“Lord Trevor," a familiar voice rolled through the confusing fog that had filled John's mind, "kindly remove your hands from my husband before I have them removed permanently.”

John’s eyes snapped open to see his love's face, coldly furious, but no less beautiful for its anger hoving into view.

Sherlock’s gaze fell to John’s and softened briefly. _Everything all right?_ He lifted one eyebrow in query.

 _Better now that you’re here._ John tightened his mouth, and nodded once in reply.

“Come now, William. You were never so stingy with your playmates before.” Victor smiled charmingly as he turned toward the man who had joined them.

“Victor, you have the morals of a ferret.” Sherlock snorted, pushing his way between the two of them to lay a proprietary hand along John’s back.

“I don’t remember that bothering you before.” Victor shrugged casually.

“I was young and infinitely stupid before. I’ve since learned a few things since then. Pity that you haven’t. Go find somewhere else to exercise your childish libido. I don’t share.”

“You might not, but John does.” Victor said raising his chin.

“What are you on about now?” Sherlock nearly hissed.

“You have Princess Irene. John shares you with her all the time. What does John have when you’re off gallivanting around and his bed is cold?”

Sherlock stopped, his mouth slightly parted, and blinked, confused as if this thought had never properly occurred to him before. When he looked questioningly at John, he blanched even further reading the-Gods-only-knew-what in the furrows of John’s forehead.

“Victor, you idiot, how dare you. You have no idea . . .” Sherlock rounded back on the other aristocrat with renewed furor. 

“Oh I have plenty of ideas, Your Highness, ideas that may never have crossed your pretty, little thick . . .”

John watched the tennis match of wills battling above his head for a moment before he sighed. Being fought over was a heady feeling, but it involved a conversation that had gotten entirely too close to home, and they were starting to attract attention. It was time to stop the theatrics.

“OY! Annoyingly tall people. Enough.” John cried out, stepping between the two spitting nobles, with the voice that generally halted people in their tracks. He was pleased to note its effectiveness this time as well. The two men stopped in mid-sentence as their gazes swiveled around to lock onto his face. Well, that was better.

“Good. Now that I’ve got your attention, I can tell you that you’re both behaving like children. I am not a toy to be borrowed or scrapped over. I am a grown man, and I can make up my own mind about things. Right now I’m hungry. I’m going to eat. Husband, would you care to join me for dinner?” John held out his arm.

“Yes, John, dinner. My thoughts exactly.” Sherlock looked almost meek as he slipped his arm into John’s, and allowed himself to be led from the room. If his husband looked back to stick his tongue out at Victor Trevor as they left, John refused to acknowledge it.

~ o ~

 

The manor’s largest dining room was made festive with yet more garlands of autumn leaves draped about, and a holiday tableaux of sorts stacked in the corner. A heap of hay bales sat with fabric owls, spiders, blackbirds and a limp scarecrow dumped on top as if someone had meant to display them all about the room, but had run out of time. 

“Sherlock, honestly. Timing.” John whispered as they joined the queue to the buffet.

“Victor was bothering you.” Sherlock replied quietly more as a statement than a question though it was certainly both. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle twitched on one side.

“Yes, actually he was.” John admitted. “Cheeky bugger that one.” He smiled trying to lighten the mood. “Look, I appreciated the rescue, but you didn’t need to come in with all cannons blazing. It’s just Victor Trevor for Gods’sake – not the whole Gallatian army. Don’t let him get under your skin like that.”

Sherlock harrumphed, but his jaw had relaxed a bit.

“Look, we’ve got the signals, why don’t we use them?” John whispered reaching over to squeeze Sherlock’s hand as they moved closer to the serving tables.

“Right. Which ones?” Sherlock scrunched his nose up briefly.

John leaned in to sniff, and sure enough, he smelled the lingering aroma of spicy punch on his husband’s breath. “Well, I doubt we’ll need the ‘my life is in peril’ and the ‘don’t come home yet - Mycroft is here’ signals. I suppose the ‘this person is talking my ear off, save me’ and ‘I want to leave now’ will be the most useful, eh? Just how much punch did you have, sweetling?”

“Obviously too much.” Sherlock looked a bit chagrined.

“No worries. Let’s get some food into you. No nibbling. _Eat_ something tonight.” John commanded as they reached the tables and each took a plate from the stack.

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock said flashing him a look that let John know that he actually appreciated John’s in-charge voice very much. John flashed him a look that said he would be quite pleased to repeat the voice in conditions with perhaps less clothing, but the large man behind them clearing his throat impatiently, let them know that at _that_ particular moment they needed to hurry up, select some food, and move the queue along or face the consequences.

Once they had filled their plates, they navigated their way toward the many round tables set up across the room, carefully avoiding bumping the other guests with their own gathered bounty. John squinted across the dim chamber trying to find an open space when Ada Summerset stood up and waved them over.

“Yoo hoo, Lord John! Prince William! We’ve got two seats here.”

John nudged Sherlock, and they made their way to the table where Lord Summerset and his two wives had already settled in to dine.

“Thanks so much.” John smiled as they joined them. “Lord Summerset. Ladies.” Pleasantries were exchanged all around as John took the empty seat next to Ada, and Sherlock slid in beside Lord Summerset. Sherlock immediately seized the opportunity to continue his ongoing campaign of grilling everyone who had spoken with Croque and Victor at the grouse shoot that morning under the guise of light conversation. In no time, he and Colin Summerset were chatting away like a house on fire. 

John rolled his eyes, and turned his attentions to the sliced fowl, mushrooms, and apple compote he had managed to retrieve amidst the confusion around the buffet table.

“It’s quite the crush in here tonight, isn’t it?” John said taking in the crowds that swirled between the food and dining area.

“I know. I think half the county has joined us tonight. I believe the masked ball will bring out the rest of them.” Ada said.

“Oh right, it’s a _masked_ ball coming up.” John groaned. “I hate masks. They always itch, and you can’t eat anything. Love, did we pack . . .” John leaned back to ask Sherlock if they had all the fancy dress they needed for the week, and Sherlock turned briefly to assure him. “Goodson has us quite prepared. Don’t worry.”

Sherlock turned back to Lord Colin and they continued nattering on about the price of wheat or some such, and John had to smile. His husband was a marvel. He could either go days without speaking, or slide on his social mask, and charm the pants off anyone he chose. It was an honor to be his escort John thought, quixotic creature that he was, and he reached over to pat his thigh. 

Sherlock glanced back. It wasn’t quite a signal for help, but he raised an eyebrow in question just the same.

John merely smiled at him. _It’s fine. I just love you._

Sherlock beamed with his eyes, and took John’s hand to give it a warm squeeze before turning back to his conversation. 

“Lord John, I appreciate your taking Ada under your wing when we weren’t around.” Lady Sharon leaned across the table. “She’s told me how much she’s enjoyed your company. We certainly owe you for your thoughtful hospitality.” 

“Not at all. Lady Sharon. I’ve enjoyed Ada’s company just as much.” John assured her.

“How kind of you.” Lady Sharon said. “Lord John, I was wondering. Perhaps you and Prince William might visit us sometime at our country home? Sadly, Ada and I don’t get into Delphium as much as we used to, but our estate isn’t that far from Rosewood Manor. We’ve already extended an invitation to Monsieur Croque and that nice Lord Trevor. Perhaps we could make it a small party?”

John’s enthusiasm dropped at the idea of another house party involving Victor and the dratted cheese sandwich, but he smiled politely all the same. “That’s too kind Lady Sharon. I’ll give you the address of our secretary. He handles all our engagements.” 

“Marvelous.” Lady Sharon exclaimed, smiling.

“Sharon.” Ada hissed from the side of her mouth. She had gone quite red across the cheeks. “I’m sure Prince William and Lord John have more pressing things on their agendas than attending a party at our house.”

John felt instantly bad for even thinking exactly the same thing. “Oh no, no. I’m certain we could fit something in. Perhaps though NOT the same weekend that you are planning with others.” John said. “It would most likely be too hard to coordinate that many schedules at once.”

“Ah indeed. Lord John. I couldn’t agree more.” Lady Sharon smiled even wider, and if anything, Ada blushed deeper. “I’m sure we can work out a time that’s mutually convenient.” 

“Lady Ada, did you manage to have your fortune told?” John asked turning toward the woman to change the subject. 

“No, not yet.” Ada said with a shake of her head. “We were so busy playing Hearts, we didn’t make it over.” 

“Ah, I got stuck in a game of Forfeits.” John admitted.

“Yes, we noticed.” Lady Sharon said dryly with a decided twinkle in her eye.

“Erm, yes.” John was starting to wonder how many people in the room had witnessed Victor and himself heatedly snogging without a care. Sherlock hadn’t exactly mentioned it yet, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t seen it as well. “How about we all go have our fortunes read after dinner?” He suggested brightly.

“I think Colin and I have a Hearts rematch to attend to, but why don’t you go on with Lord John, Ada?” Lady Sharon suggested.

“Oh, I’d love to, John.” Ada smiled at him clearly recovered from whatever had been bothering her.

“Ah, fine then.” John said. “Just let me ask my husband his plans.” John swiveled around to find Sherlock’s chair now quite vacant, and his plate of food mostly untouched. “If I can figure out wherever in the world he just hied off to . . .” John looked back and forth seeing no trace of said tall, gorgeous husband.

“Try the pudding table.” Lady Sharon said, nodding back toward the buffet.

John peered over the crowd, and could indeed just make out a mop of dark curls across the room by the desserts.

“Ah yes, thank you. If you ladies will excuse me for a moment?” John rose from the table to make his way to where Sherlock stood intently studying the sweet things. 

Someone had managed to make a fancier display at this corner of the room. A number of black cloth bats hung from the ceiling to dangle over the pudding table. A sparkly silver tablecloth that glowed with its own subtle light lay under an array of cakes, custards, and bone-shaped biscuits along with a collection of sparkly crystal skulls sprinkled throughout. Magecraft for certain John thought.

“Hey you.” John nudged Sherlock at the hip once he joined him at the table. “Come here often?”

“Thankfully no.” Sherlock replied. “John, I heard there were tarts. Do you see any?”

“What sort?”

“Apple. Someone said they were divine. They should have a lattice top.”

“Oh, back there, behind the crème brulee. At least I think that’s crème brulee.” The pudding in question looked to be custards in individual cups, browned on the tops, but with what seemed to be a large eyeball resting in the center of each. John picked one up and on closer inspection, the eye turned out to be a meringue with some clever icing bits used to draw pupils and red veins. “Ooh, I’m having this.” John said picking up two for his plate.

Sherlock rolled his own eyes at it. “Juvenille” he pronounced. He had indeed found the tarts and had filled a plate with three of them. He picked one up and ate half of it in one bite. “Mmmm, not bad. Here taste.” 

John dutifully took a bite and moaned as he chewed. “Oh, that is good. These would give Mrs. H a run for her money. I see the new cooks are good at pastry.” 

“Yes, when they aren’t getting drunk on the cooking sherry, they do an excellent job.” Sherlock agreed archly finishing off the tart. 

“Pardon me.” A woman in grey silk said attempting to reach the orange and purple iced petit fours behind them. 

“Excuse us, please.” John apologized, and shifted them both to the side to give her access. “So, it seems I’ve agreed to escort Lady Ada for a trip the fortune tellers after dinner. Fancy a reading?” 

“John, you know all that nonsense is smoke and mirrors.”

“It’s a party game, Love.” John explained patiently. “So, are you in or out?”

“Is this a ‘rescue me’ moment?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow. 

“Noooo, not as such, why?” 

“Well, I was hoping to talk with one last guest who was on the shoot today, Mr. Ruggles - a neighbor of the Basketvilles. He’ll be returning home this evening, and I want to catch him before he leaves. I have a feeling I know what Victor and cheesy are up to, and talking with Ruggles could cement it.”

“Anything you care to share?”

“I’d rather wait till I have all the data, but I’m almost there.”

“All right, does this mean I don’t have to keep an eye on the Cheese Sandwich or Mr. Irritating anymore?” John asked, lifting one of the eyeball desserts to wave about in emphasis. 

“No, you won’t. John, I’m sorry . . .”

“There you two are.”

John turned to find Lady Ada standing behind them. “What looks good for afters, then?”

“Ah, I think the crème brulee looks interesting.” John said passing her the cup in his hand. 

“Ooh, that’s a good word for it. I hope it tastes better than it looks.” Ada said accepting the eyeball-topped custard.

“Pun not intended?” John teased.

“Oh, dear me, no, I’m terrible at puns.” Ada smiled. “So, Prince William.” She turned to face Sherlock. “We’re heading off into the unknown, and braving the soothsayers. Are you free to join us and have your fortune told?”

“Alas, no, I must cry off. I have another task at hand, and if you’ll excuse me I see the man I need to speak with just leaving. Here John, take this.” Sherlock handed John his last tart, and with a quick crumbly kiss to his cheek, disappeared into the crowd.

“He’s a funny one, isn’t he?” Ada mused looking after him.

John smiled as he reached up to wipe the side of his face clean. “He’s one in a million actually, and I’m a damn lucky sod to know him.”

~ o ~

 

The queue for the two diviners giving palm readings looked long, so John and Ada opted for the woman doing card fortunes instead. They only had to wait for the guest ahead of them to be finished before they slid in to the waiting seats at her table. 

“Good evening, sir, and madam.” The medium nodded pleasantly as they settled. She was middle-aged, but her hair was giving nothing away having been dyed quite an interesting shade of orange and twisted up about her head in a variety of knots. It shouldn’t have matched the voluminous red dress she was wearing, but that plus the many beaded bracelets up each of her arms looked quite striking. She wasn’t draped in veils like the palm readers, and didn’t affect anything more exotic than a usual midlands accent. John found himself relaxing about the whole “mystic eye” thing. 

“Is it a couples’ reading that you would like tonight, my gentles?”

“No, no.” John assured her. “We’re not a couple.”

“Just friends.” Ada echoed. “Why don’t you go first John. I’m a little nervous.” She reached over and patted John’s arm.

“All right. What do I need to do?” John asked the card reader.

“This part is simple.” The woman’s bright eyes twinkled at him. “Take the cards, and shuffle well. You can ask a question, or simply leave your mind blank and open to the forces of the universe. When you feel you are done, cut the cards and hand them back.”

John dutifully took the oversized deck of cards, and did his best to mix them around without dropping the whole lot to the ground. The back of the cards were printed with a lovely twining purple design and John found it a bit hypnotic to watch it ripple as he shuffled the two halves of the deck together. He thought some signal might come to him telling him the right time to stop mixing, but when nothing came, he simply laid the cards down and cut the deck.

“Ah, let us see what the great mystery of the universe has decided to reveal to us today.” The fortune teller intoned, and scooping the cards up, flipped them one by one to lay in a pattern across the table top.

“Hmmm.” She said. “Hmmm." She rubbed her chin as she studied the bright pictures on the cards as if not sure where to begin. John had had his cards read once before, but he couldn't make heads or tails of the odd symbols on the cards himself, so he waited, interested for what the woman would say.

“You have some conflict in your life.” The diviner finally announced.

John nodded. That was a common enough predicament. Only those who were dead didn’t have some conflict in their lives.

“You are torn between juggling your work and home life, and you feel as if you are competing for the prize, competing to be seen as number one. I see a man. An intense, thoughtful man in your life. You have some conflict with him, and choices to be made. Perhaps you have more than one lover? I see much going on with your love life.”

Ada giggled beside him, and John shifted uncomfortably in his seat wondering if the woman knew him, or had just seen him with Victor earlier in the no-holds-barred snog of the season. 

As the woman paused and continued to study the spread of cards, John cleared his throat. “Is that all?”

“No,” the fortune teller paused a moment. “I see new beginnings. A birth in the family perhaps? But there are complications surrounding it.”

“Complications? What sort?” John leaned forward, concerned now.

“The cards do not bring details,” The woman said kindly, “but whatever the problem is, things will be worked out. I see wishes fulfilled as your final outcome. Really, a very fine reading for the new year to come, good sir.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks. Thank you so much.” John said wondering how much of the prediction to take to heart.

“Oh John, that was an interesting fortune. And not too bad. Maybe mine won’t be anything too terrible.”

“No, no, I’m sure it will be fine.” John reassured her. “Remember. Don’t take it too seriously – just a game, you know?” He added more quietly.

The card reader tilted her head and smiled at Ada as she passed the deck to her. “Your turn dear lady, please, shuffle until you feel the cards are ready.”

John glanced around the party as Ada fumbled to mix the large deck. Another game of Forfeits was in full swing nearby, and someone was jumping around imitating a monkey for it. John shook his head, glad it wasn’t him. He spotted Sherlock across the room deep in conversation. It looked as though he had landed his quarry. Sherlock seemed pleased as he nodded to the rabbity-looking man in a brown suit before him.

A sudden bit of a commotion at the doors to the parlour caught his eye. The nanny and nursemaid were back with another fly-by visit from the Basketville children. This night, the girl was clad in a fetching pink nightshirt, and her little brother in a white one. Lady Basketville had appeared to take the small boy into her arms, while letting the flock of women, who had moved in like geese to seed, pass the older girl around. There was much pinching of cheeks and delighted cooing until Lord Basketville entered the cozy scene.

“There now, let me have the lad. There’s no reason to mollycoddle a Basketville.” He boomed taking the boy from his wife’s arms.

“Oh, mind his head, dear.” Lady Basketville fretted as her husband took the small child, and began to toss him into the air. In no short time, the boy was howling loudly. Lord Basketville handed him back looking red in the face, and his wife made short work of bundling the children and the nursemaids back out the door, assuring all she’d return once they'd gotten the dears settled in bed.

Idiot. John thought to himself as he watched Basketville stalk back to his cronies at the card table, blustering all the way.

“What do you think, Lord John?”

John turned to find that Ada’s cards had been laid on the table, and she had spoken to him, asking him a question. “Sorry?” John said, blinking in confusion 

“What do you think, Lord John, am I a courageous person generally? The cards say I will soon overcome great obstacles, and prove my inner fortitude."

“Ah, yes, lovely, that sounds lovely.” John waffled, nodding quickly as if he’d been following all along.

“I see some troubles here though . . .” The fortune teller said pointing at a card, and drawing Ada’s attention back to the spread.

John looked over to where he had last seen Sherlock, and found that he'd moved to continue the conversation leaning by the fireplace. Not for the first time it struck him how utterly stunning the man was. Like some statue carved in pale marble, the planes of his face were cool, sharp and elegant, yet tonight they were honeyed where the warm light of the flames danced over him. He had one elbow to the mantle, and one hip cocked as he raised a glass of something tawny, sipping gracefully. From the beautiful angles of his rangy limbs to the glints of light haloing that head of ebony curls, there was nothing about his love that did not catch the breath in John’s throat. His hands suddenly ached with the need to touch his husband.

“I’m sorry, forgive me, Lady Ada.” John said turning to his companion with a ready smile. “I realize there’s someone Prince William and I needed to speak with before it grows too late tonight. I hope you’ll excuse my rude departure.”

“Oh, certainly, Lord John. Thank you so much for your company.” Ada tried not to look too disappointed as she fluttered back a smile.

“I’m sure I’ll see you later, farewell dear lady till next we meet.” John said warmly taking her hand.

“Of course, sir. Farewell.” Ada pinked again as he bent to dust a brief kiss over her knuckles.

John lost no time in making his way across the room to join his favourite detective. Sherlock frowned slightly when he spied John stalking his way, then smiled quickly in pleasure as John slid in to take his place beside him.

“Mr. Ruggles, have you met my husband, Lord Watson-Holmes?” Sherlock asked, laying a hand to John's back. He seemed so proud to say the words, just hearing the sunbeams in his voice soothed John’s jangled nerves. For a holiday away, they’d spent all together too much time apart he thought 

“No, we haven’t been properly introduced. How do you do, sir?” the man put a hand forward, and John shook it distractedly. 

“Fine, sir, a pleasure to meet you.” John mumbled.

“We were just discussing fox hunting. Your husband was just telling me how much he enjoyed a good hunt. Do you ride as well, Your Grace?” Ruggles asked.

John couldn’t help glancing up at Sherlock, watching him struggle to hold his bland expression rather than joining the laugh building in John’s eyes. Sherlock _hated_ fox hunting. John turned back to the man with a small chuckle. “No, Prince William may love a good hunt, but I confess I rarely have the time to engage in such noble pursuits.”

“Truly? What other pastimes do you engage in that takes up your time so, if I might enquire?” Ruggles asked.

“I am a healer, sir, and have a practice in Delphium.” John admitted.

“Oh, a healer. Well, that’s splendid, just splendid. Say, I was wondering I had an odd thing happen the other day, I was lifting my arm and . . .”

John fixed his gaze on the man, nodding politely while reaching over to tug his right earlobe with his left hand as if it itched him.

“Oh dear, Mr. Ruggles. I do appreciate your time, sir. It was lovely to chat with you, but I realize we must dash.” Sherlock cut in smoothly.

“Oh, no worries, Your Highness. I hope it’s nothing serious that calls you away.” Ruggles wrinkled his brow in concern.

“Not at all, but there’s a matter that requires my personal attention before it grows too late in the evening. It was a pleasure, sir.” Sherlock held out his hand, and the man took it fairly glowing in his praise for their delightful conversation. It was always a social kudo to score time with a prince, and John found himself barely able to smile and shake the man’s hand, so desperate was he to leave the noise and crowd behind, and get his love alone.

Finally, finally, John was able to lead them away, working their way through the partygoers, nodding to people, his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back, feeling the heat of man and the residual warmth from the fireplace on his coat as he steered them toward the door. It wasn’t until they'd reached the corridor, that John released the breath he’d been holding.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked frowning slightly in concern as he searched John’s face.

“No. Not any more.” John shook his head, but didn't slow their progress, lacing his hand with Sherlock’s to tug his husband quite insistently down the hallway.

Stragglers from the party lingered in small groups, chatting outside the parlour and dining room, but just a few paces farther down the hall, and things thinned considerably. For once, John was glad that the Basketville’s estate boasted so many dark and unpopulated corridors. As soon as John spotted a likely turn off, a side passage that no doubt connected to the servants’ stairways, he ducked in pulling Sherlock after him. Once as they’d made a turn out of sight, John shoved his love against the wall, and fisting his hand in Sherlock’s hair, dragged his mouth down to meet his. Sherlock squeaked in surprise, but he was a clever man and he caught on very quickly. His own arms rose to wrap around John, crushing him against his chest as they ground their mouths together, attempting to climb inside each other’s skin by way of their lips and tongues. 

“Missed you, want you.” John got out, as he wrenched Sherlock’s cravat aside, pulling at the buttons of his shirt to get at that neck, that glorious, long, delicious neck.

“John.” Sherlock gasped, his hips bucking up as John managed to reach skin, and mouth greedily at his throat. 

“Fuck.” John groaned trying to divest Sherlock of as much clothing as he possibly could. Formal wear boasted all too many layers to be reasonably dealt with even if one wasn’t melting with scorching desire which at this point, John definitely was. He suddenly felt as if he might die if he couldn’t touch Sherlock’s cock _right then._

“Love, let me.” Sherlock rasped out, moving John’s fumbling fingers aside to unfasten his trousers, and push the offending fabric aside.

When Sherlock’s erection finally burst forth, John cried out as if struck, and fell to his knees nearly overcome by the mere sight of him.

“Gods, yes.” John gasped, wrapping hands over Sherlock’s hips and leaning in to press his face to the dark curls covering his love’s groin. John inhaled the musky scent of Sherlock, the lovely smell that was headier than any perfume. His love’s swollen cock jutted out obscenely bumping against John’s cheek, and he turned his head gratefully, to run his tongue along its length.

“Baby, oh baby.” John mumbled wrapping a hand around the base of his penis to guide the head to his mouth. He licked over the glans tasting the bitter drop that gathered there, running his tongue over it again and again as if he were savouring an ice lolly. Above him, Sherlock merely groaned his appreciation in a bone-melting rumble.

“Bunny, come to daddy.” John growled, and swallowed him down.

Sherlock sagged against the wall, his hands clutching John’s shoulders as he did his best to remain upright.

It was filthy, and so inappropriate. John knew that at any moment someone might happen down the corridor and find them here so exposed - John on his knees worshipping Sherlock, his beautiful cock halfway down his throat. It made John burn even hotter, and he hollowed his cheeks to suck harder.

Sherlock trembled under him, panting in time with John’s pulls. He gave but a single cry when he tipped over, ejaculating in hot, gagging pulses against John’s tongue. John swallowed as best as he was able, reveling in the sheer glory of being able to unravel this sex god of a man so easily. It was almost too much to believe that this glorious being was actually his, his husband, his love. John let Sherlock's softening penis slip out of his mouth, but he continued to press hot kisses over it, over his groin, and belly, wherever he could reach exposed flesh.

“John, have a mercy, I’m about to tumble.” Sherlock whispered in a hoarse voice, and John relented and let him fall to his knees on the floor.

“Great Gods, you beautiful man.” Sherlock breathed, his eyes shining near turquoise in the dim corridor. He sank down, pulling John with him to the threadbare carpet below, attacking his mouth as his hand flew to the front of John's straining trousers.

“Uhnnnn.” John was incoherent as Sherlock sucked and licked under his jaw, running a palm over his insistent erection still trapped under layers of fabric.

“I want you too. Want you to come for me too, John.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled over John’s ear as he scrambled for the pesky buttons holding John captive.

“Yes,” John whispered near out of his mind, “Yes.” 

A terrible crash sounded somewhere down the hall. Sherlock’s progress on John’s buttons ground to a halt as they froze, listening as a rough bumping sound of something obviously falling, and a most horrible scream descending along with it washed over their ears. The following silence was quickly filled by the pounding of several feet hurrying toward whatever disaster had just occurred.

“A healer!” A voice cried out. “Someone find a healer!”

“Oh, Bleeding Gods.” John sighed.

“We can ignore it.” Sherlock whispered, dropping his forehead to John’s.

“Nope. I can’t. Buggery hell. Help me up.” John sighed, and resigned himself to dealing with whatever new crisis had befallen Basketville Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact:  
> Research tells me that aristocrats of the 1700’s played card games with such interesting names as Karnöffel, Gleek, Ombre and Piquet. Since those names meant bupkus to me, and I figured others might not be familiar with them either, people at THIS party are playing Hearts. My husband tells me he did very badly in college once due in part to lack of gas money, but also due to some cut-throat games of Hearts that kept him from attending classes. So I presume it is an engaging pastime. Also, hey, it's still an AU here.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor John finds that his healing talents are needed much too often during their visit to Basketville Hall.

~ o ~

 

John and Sherlock, clothes hastily returned to rights, followed the buzz of voices to fetch up at the main foyer where a crowd had gathered.

“I’m a Healer. Pardon me, pardon me, please.” John called, making his way past the gawkers to find the still form of Lady Basketville sprawled at the base of the stairs. “What happened, did anyone see what happened?” He asked as he knelt beside her, placing fingers to her throat to check for a pulse. He sighed with relief at finding the steady rhythm beating under his touch.

“I saw, sir. Milady fell. She fell right down the stairs just a-tumbling all the way down.” A young maid answered, (called Rhiannon, been here one year John’s memory supplied) her face white as a sheet as she timidly pushed her way forward.

“Did you see anyone with her?” Sherlock asked sharply, eyeing the entire crowd suspiciously as if they had all conspired to cause Lady Basketville’s fall.

“No, Your Grace.” The girl shook her head. “No one.”

A footman (Riley been here two years) hurried in carrying a bowl with ice and some towels. He dropped beside the lady, and looked as if he meant to tuck a towel under head until John stopped him. “No, don’t move her until I’ve had a chance to look her over.”

“Stand back everyone stand back. Give the man some room to work.” John heard Sherlock chastising the crowd as he placed hands to each side of Lady Basketville’s skull, and then he heard no more as he settled, and slid into his patient’s energies.

Breathing was a steady whoosh, and heart rate elevated, but not a concern. A quick search over the whole body revealed some minor external bumps and scrapes, but the fracture in her right arm, and the contusion on her brain were the main concern. John quickly focused on the injury to her brain, soothing the tissues before swelling became an issue. He spared some remaining energy to flow over her radius, urging the bone to realign and begin to knit back together. It would take more power than he had at the moment to return the arm to full recovery, but it was always better to let the body heal naturally as much as possible. Less shock to the system. He’d gotten the bone situated to where it should grow together quite nicely on his own. Satisfied that his patient was stable, John released contact, and pushed back to normal consciousness.

“How long?” He croaked blinking as Sherlock’s face, a small crease between his eyebrows, swam into view.  

“Forty minutes.” His husband said handing him a glass of water. John accepted it gratefully, taking a long swallow.

The area had obviously been cleared of sightseers as John had worked, and a screen guarded by a few footmen now shielded the foyer from the hallway. Only Lord Basketville was left to hover nearby as two maids, Rhiannon, and Poppy, cleaned up a vase and a small table that had been broken during her ladyship’s descent.

“How is she?” Lord Basketville asked, stepping forward with a frown. “Is there any permanent damage?”

“No. She’ll be fine.” John reassured him, rising stiffly to his feet. She may need some pain medication and a light splint for her arm though – I should have that in my medical kit. I healed an injury to her head, and set a break in her right arm just here.” John tapped the corresponding place on his own forearm in display. “With a little rest, she should be right as rain in a few days.”

“Ah, good, good.” Lord Basketville shuddered as he ran a hand over his face. “Can we move her?” 

“Yes, of course.” John said. “Let’s just make sure her arm isn’t jostled overmuch. I’ll meet you in her chambers with my bag.”

The woman moaned slightly as Lord Basketville and the larger footman (Thompson been here five years) maneuvered her off the floor, but otherwise remained limp in their arms as they carefully carried her up the stairs, a trail of maids following after.

“What do you think?” John asked gesturing toward the stairwell as he drained the last of his water.

“I want to check out the steps where Lady Basketville fell. See what I can find out. Presumably she was on her way back from the nursery. Will she be fit to talk tonight do you think?”

“Physically, she’s fine.” John said setting his glass down on a small side table. “Mentally may be another matter all together. She’s had quite a fright. Once I get her arm sorted, why don’t we see how she is? I don’t want you browbeating a patient, Sherlock.”

“Agreed. I’ll meet you at the lady’s room in about half an hour.” Sherlock nodded and darted off, keen as a bloodhound to sniff out what clues could be unearthed to explain the curious events of the evening.

 

~ o ~

Sherlock found the step that Lady Basketville must have tripped over just down from the first floor landing readily enough. It had a strange ripple pattern in the marble almost like a shallow wave that this fingers could clearly follow. The warped step seemed a recent addition to the stairway. He couldn’t fathom not having noticed it earlier. Odd. 

Sherlock looked for sight lines, places an assailant could have hidden. The landing above was wide open holding only a small table with a brace of candles under a portrait of some previous lord of the manor. Sherlock spared the frumpy fellow with two chins half a glance before investigating a curtained window to the side – no recessed well to hide in, curtain only half-way to the floor, and the two dim corridors that led from either side, one of which the lady must have used to return from the nursery a floor above. Returning to rap at the wall where the unattractive Basketville ancestor hung however revealed a satisfyingly hollow sound.

"Aha." Sherlock chortled. It was like Winter Solstice. A quick nip into the room behind to the portrait revealed a thankfully empty bedroom. As expected, the room ended before the corridor outside. Tunnels in the wall - it had to be. Returning to the landing led Sherlock back to the painting of the previous lord. Closer inspection revealed a cunning little panel that slid the eyes of the portrait aside. Such an old trick. Sherlock rolled his own eyes. He tried to peer into the secret tunnel beyond, but it was too dark to see much of anything. Still, it was quite a discovery.

Satisfied that all that that could be gleaned from the scene had been found, Sherlock made his way to Lady Basketville’s room. He wasn’t overly surprised to find the housekeeper, Mrs. Garrott, lingering in the hallway outside her lady’s bedchamber, her hunched body a study in anguish.

“Mrs. Garrott. How are you?” Sherlock pasted a smile over his face as he sidled up to the woman.

“Oh, this is dreadful.” The woman twisted her hands into her apron, her lined face a veritable pucker of discomfort. “My poor lady.”

“Yes, a nasty business.” Sherlock agreed. “Does this happen often, people tripping down the stairs at Basketville hall?”

“No, of course not, sir.” The housekeeper bristled at the question, dropping her hands to turn angrily toward him. “Will she be all right?” 

“I expect so. The household is lucky that one of the finest healers in the land was visiting as a guest.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Garrott, is Lady Basketville normally a clumsy person would you say?”

“No, not generally.” Mrs. Garrott seemed to fold in on herself. She looked to the floor as her hands smoothed over her rumpled apron. “Her ladyship is a paragon of grace.”

“Ah, well then can you think of anyone who had a grudge against her ladyship and might wish her ill?” Sherlock asked softly.

“N-n-no, of course not. What a question, Your Grace.” 

“Oh, come now. A second wife is always an interloper to an established household. Surely there are some who would resent her intrusion. I know that you were quite close with the first Lady Basketville by your own admissions.” Sherlock waited, letting the statement hang in the air.

“This is absurd! What are you suggesting, sir?” Mrs. Garrott sputtered, raising her head to finally meet his eyes. “Are you saying that I could hurt a woman who has been nothing but kind to me simply for being new? That I pushed her ladyship down the stairs? I was downstairs supervising the serving of the party all evening. Ask anyone.” 

“Calm yourself, my good woman. Your loyalty is not in question here.” The detective lied smoothly. “I trust though that you will keep your ears and eyes open, and if some tidbit of information might surface about this incident you will inform myself or Lord Basketville immediately?”

“Yes, of course, sir.” The woman said, her ruffled feathers settling with his soothing words.

When a maid exited the room carrying a bundle (Elspeth, been here one year), Sherlock stopped her to ask on Lady Basketville’s condition.

“She’s much better, sir.” The girl bobbed a curtsy. “The Healer’s just finished with her arm.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock reached out to rap smartly at the door. Marie, Lady Basketville’s peronal maid, (been with her seven years) answered it. After he and Mrs. Garrott were allowed entrance, the housekeeper hurried to her lady’s bedside.

“Oh, madame, how are you?” She cried.

"It's been an ordeal of course." The Lady of the manor shuddered delicately, "But as well as can be expected." Lady Basketvile wore a stylish pink dressing gown as she lay propped atop a veritable mountain of small pillows. Besides a a wrist now tightly wrapped in bandages, she looked quite fine. 

John, however, perched on a chair nearby, rummaging in his healer’s bag looked exhausted. Even disheveled, he was still the most gorgeous man in the building. Sherlock couldn’t help running his eyes over him from his clever Healer’s hands, to his sturdy shoulders to that wonderful tilt of a nose. His John was compactly built, short in stature, quick with a smile. So often that was all people saw, this mild exterior. But most people were idiots. Surely, it was surely some joke of the Gods that such a sweet-looking man could contain such volumes of raw, coiled power vibrating just beneath his skin. 

John rose with the packet of herbs that he’d drawn from his bag, and passed it to Marie, her ladyship’s personal maid. “She’ll need a cup brewed with two tablespoons of this tonight, then one for both the morning and the afternoon for the next few days. A spoonful of honey with it wouldn’t go amiss either.” He smiled at the girl, and she dimpled back as she curtsied.

John had many smiles - kind ones, angry ones, polite ones at the ready to pass out for a variety of situations. Sherlock could waste time being jealous, but he contented himself with the knowledge that there were some John-smiles that no one else but he was privy to view. The "John relaxed in the bath" smile was gorgeous. The "John shaking his head at something Sherlock had done, declaring it inappropriate, but laughing at it just the same" grin was a keeper. Of course the John "blissed-out" smirk in their bed after some bout of lovemaking had left them both boneless was something next to holy.

John finally glanced up and found him lurking in the back of the room. The smile he flashed his way was radiant. Sherlock made a note to add this one to his list of favourites - the “I’m happy to see you again” smile as John moved to join him. He looked even more done in close up.

“Can I speak with her now?” Sherlock bent to whisper at John’s ear.

“Yeh, keep it light, but go ahead, she’s fine – quite lucid.”

Sherlock nodded, and moved to stand by Mrs. Garrott who nodded as Lady Basketville recited her never-ending litany of instructions for some upcoming frivolity in this week of over-done festivities. Sherlock was poised to interrupt when Lord Basketville took to his feet from a chair by the hearth, and stomped to the bed.

“We're shutting this party down.” Henry frowned. “I fear things are getting too dangerous, my dear.”

“Henry, nooo.” Lady Basketville plucked at his sleeve. “We can’t. We simply can’t. We’ve planned too long for this. It’s our return to society.”

“Society be damned.” Lord Basketville spat. “If this ghost or demon or whatever it is has taken to attacking people then perhaps it’s not safe for any of us here. We should shut the whole cursed pile of rocks up, and move to our house in town.” He flung his hands out as if ridding himself of the whole sorry business.

The maid tending the fire (Poppy, been here two years), and the housekeeper both froze at his lordship’s outburst, but Sherlock took this as his cue, and slid smoothly in.

“Lord Basketville. I appreciate your concerns, but with the information that I have already gathered, I am mere steps away from solving this mystery. I assure you, by the end of the week, you will have answers and your ‘haunting’ will be no more.”

“Your Highness, I thank you for your time with our troubles,” Lord Basketville rounded to face him, “but I admit I didn’t realize how serious all this was. Missing trinkets is one thing, but violence to my family is not a tenable situation.”

“If you cancel the party, and move to town, then you will not only miss catching this menace, but you will have forfeited your home to it. I promise you, go forward as planned, and I will solve your mystery, sir.”

“If this is so, what guarantee do I have that no other calamity of this nature will befall someone here, my good sir?”

“None.” Sherlock answered him baldly. “But to be fair, you have no guarantee that an accident won’t occur on any day of the week at any place of residence - threat or no. Life comes with no global reassurances.”

Lord Basketville screwed up his forehead obviously struggling to absorb this.

Sherlock held up a palm. “I know, Lord Basketville, you have concerns. Consider however that you have one of the finest healers in all of Brettona staying under your roof this week.” Sherlock nodded toward John who stood rapt, the sides of lip twitching upward. _Dear John._

“It’s true.” Lady Basketville piped up batting her eyes. “I feel much better.”

These people just didn’t deserve the ministrations of John, still needs must, Sherlock took a breath, and plowed on. “You can certainly take preventative measures as well. Have all of the staff on their toes, watching for any anomaly whatsoever. Offer a bonus if anyone sees anything the slightest bit irregular.”

“Well, I admit, that does sound reasonable.” His lordship tugged at his beard.

“It is reasonable, and a good plan.” Sherlock pushed. “Mrs. Garrott can warn the staff, tell them of the heightened alert status. Surely between all of us on guard, nothing like tonight’s debacle will happen again. Though I suggest you and your wife not move unescorted about the premises again.”

Lord Basketville was skeptical at first, but with some well-timed pleading from his wife to tip him over, he reluctantly agreed to continue the week of the party as planned.

Sherlock sighed with relief when his lordship sent Mrs. Garrott off on her appointed mission to fire up the staff on “ghost alert.” Once all the servants had cleared the room, Sherlock turned back to Lady Basketville.

“I apologize for asking you to revisit anything upsetting, but I wanted to go over again your fall, and anything you might have seen that explains it.” Sherlock narrowed down on the woman.

She flushed at the attention, and stammered. “Well, I was coming down from the nursery . . .” The woman nattered on at length. She’d seen or heard nothing suspicious until she’d felt the step moving under her, and had slipped, falling head-first into her painful descent.

“The step moved under you, you say?” Sherlock asked.

“It was most curious, sir, but it did.”

“And you’ve had no incidents of dizziness or vertigo before?”

“No. Well, I got a tad dizzy a few times while I was increasing, but I felt fine this evening. It was the step, I tell you.” Lady Basketville insisted. “It . . . shifted.”

“Have you had any work done on that staircase recently?” Sherlock swung his gaze back to Lord Basketville.

“No, none.” His lordship shook his head. “It’s been a damned nuisance getting staff of any sort to agree to work at the manor what with all this nonsense going on. Your Grace, you say you can truly solve this . . .”

“I can answer your mystery by the end of the week, Lord Basketville. I swear it.”

 

~ o ~

 

“Thoughts?” John asked as they made their way back to their bedroom.

“Many.” Sherlock answered, “But the best theory so far is that the perpetrator of this mischief is an Earth Mage.”

“Really?” 

“They wouldn’t need to touch someone to push them down some stairs, merely a line of sight to shift any stone on the steps.”

“Why would someone want to kill Lady Basketville though? That seems extreme.” John said.

“Crime of passion?” Sherlock shrugged. “So often the pains of the heart bring out the most irrational behaviour in people. But we don’t know if murder was the intent. Perhaps just a fright was hoped for – we can’t know without more data.”

“I’ve got it. Lord Basketville has a lover,” John snapped his fingers, “someone who resents his new wife.”

“Excellent deduction.” 

“You really think that’s it, then?” John asked hurrying a bit to keep up with Sherlock’s longer-legged stride down the hallway.

Sherlock slowed his gait to better match John’s. “No, not at all.” He admitted. “If his lordship had a lover, the servants would know. It would have come out as we were questioning them. No, he’s monogamous with wife number two.”

“Well, then who is responsible for all this? Who would care this much to continue this harassment for years! It’s frustrating.” John huffed.

“Calm yourself, dear man. I believe we won’t need to puzzle out the exact nature of the specter.” Sherlock paused at their bedroom door. “We will have someone lead us to them.” Sherlock smiled at John’s puzzled frown as he turned the handle and ushered them both inside.

 

~ o ~

 

Sherlock watched John sliding into sleep. Perhaps it wasn’t fair making him sleep. John had rallied against resting when the game was on, but it was only with half-hearted protests. For the second night in a row, Sherlock had borrowed his husband’s healing talent, and sent a sleep command into his body. John’s face relaxed beautifully as he drifted off. Sherlock couldn’t help lifting a finger to trace the curve of his cheek. How boyish his John looked sprawled across the mattress, an open hand curled beside his face.

It made Sherlock think on how little of a boyhood his John had actually enjoyed. Time that should have been spent on carefree pursuits had been used on overcoming being the son of the town sot. Sherlock, himself, hadn’t survived a much more cheerful childhood. He might have been wearing silks and linens while wandering long halls trimmed in gold, but the loneliness had been the same. Sometimes he ached at the thought of all the time he had wasted before meeting John.

How Sherlock wished he could revisit the past. He could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye - his younger self escaping the confines of the palace, finding a carriage, and demanding to be ferried to Dullenshire to find John, his precious John, lying there in wait. They could have been together before the Fever Plague hit, before John’s dimwitted girlfriend placed a dark curse over him, and he stumbled off half dead into war. Surely meeting John earlier would have steered Sherlock away from the fetid pit of drugs and debauchery that had eaten most of his youth. He could have introduced John to his dear grandmother, and perhaps if he’d had a master healer at his side, she wouldn’t have even died so needlessly soon.

Sherlock shook his head at his folly. He possessed no way to circumvent the forward march of time. He had to be content with the notion that their long-ago hurts had somehow worked to forge their characters of today, and in some cosmic plan of capricious Gods, they had met when they were meant to. It was the sort of drivel one might have penned onto a wall scroll, but there it was.

Pressing a final kiss to John’s forehead, Sherlock stood to shed his finery, and redress in something plain to begin the real work of the night. He’d already sent Goodson on ahead to keep watch on Mrs. Garrott’s movements. She had not been pleased to see the harm to Lady Basketville that evening, and he would stake his life on the fact that she would try contacting the person behind all this haunting nonsense – either to warn or to chastise them. If all went well, Mrs. Garrott would be their unwitting guide dog tonight.

Sherlock made certain the two windows were bolted tight before quitting the room. Undoubtedly an Earth Mage could shift stones on the outside of a house to form a stairway of sorts to any window they desired. It explained how the intruder was able to enter and exit their bedroom undetected so easily the previous day. Once satisfied the outside entrances to the room were secure, he locked the door behind him, pocketed the key, and slipped quietly down the dim corridor. Most of the guests were still downstairs making merry until the wee hours, and a number of the servants would be there alongside them.

Sherlock lost no time in finding the servants' passage, creeping quietly but quickly down the twisting dark staircase. He had an almost complete layout of the house memorized by now, and easily found his way to the kitchen level. He paused before entering the corridor, pulling a "don't see me" charm bracelet from his pocket to slip over his wrist. It didn't have much magic left, and he wanted to use it as strategically as possible. Shielded enough, Sherlock made his way undetected down the hall to peep into the main kitchen. The place was a flurry of activity as servants bustled about, but Mrs. Garrott wasn’t one of them. A quick backtrack to the servant’s retiring room brought better results. Three visiting valets, Goodson among them, a footman and a maid were enjoying the spiced punch that had been flowing so freely that evening, while Mrs. Garrott sat with a cup of tea by the small fireplace. Sherlock slipped in, unnoticed, and found a corner to wait.

“'Ere now, you wouldn’t catch me sticking around a house with a ghost that pushes people down the stairs.” One of the visiting valets exclaimed taking a healthy sip of his drink.

“Careful now, Hardy, we still have work to do this evening. You’ll need to watch the grog.” Another valet chided him.

“Ah, Jerry, leave off. His high and mighty won’t know what state I’m in when he rolls back up to bed.” The young man grinned. “Still, helps to have a little liquid courage in the belly what with demons loose about in the house.”

“Oy, there’s no demons here.” The footman, Samuel, snapped at the visiting servant. “We’ve had a priest from town, Brother Matthews, in to bless the house just last fortnight.”

“If we’ve got anything, it’s just a wee spirit, see, some soul trapped in limbo who can’t make it yet to the other side.” The maid called Elspeth chimed in. “Nothing that could hurt you, you great lump.”

“Hmmph.” The soused one called Hardy snorted derisively. “Way, I see it, your ladyship nearly broke her neck tonight from the work of evil spirits. If you ask me, this place has a portal open straight to the underworld, and no telling what sort of demons and unnatural creatures are waiting to slit our throats in the night. I’ve got my good luck charm for sure,” He paused to pull a braided amulet on a chain from under his neckline to show the room, “but I don’t know about the rest of you. Best watch yourselves, or else . . .” He ended with a dramatic gesture of a finger slicing over his neck.

“Now, now. We’ll have no more talk like that.” Mrs. Garrott stepped in. “There’s no haunts or undead things in this house. Lady Basketville merely had a small accident tripping on the stairs tonight. Those who should know better would do well to pray for her continued good health, and not spend their time spreading fanciful tales of evil spirits.”

The other servants exchanged uncomfortable glances between them, but the talk of demons halted, and a good-natured grumble about the unreasonable requests they received from the good folks they served took over.

Sherlock found himself suppressing a chuckle about a tale the valet called Jerry shared of his master, Lord Trevor, and finding not just two women, but another man besides in his bed one morning, and his lordship acting as cool as you please ringing for tea and wash water for all. So Jerry was Victor’s manservant. Sherlock looked at him more closely, and realized he’d been a bit remiss on investigating Victor’s affairs to have forgotten his valet. He was a pretty little thing, Sherlock noted, but completely straight. Victor probably picked him for just that reason – nice to look at, but low temptation to touch. Wise of him – fucking the staff never led to good things in the long run.

Sherlock was pleased to note that Goodson laughed along with the rest of the crew, but didn’t have any tales of his own to share. Discretion was a higher commodity when one worked for the royal family, but his servant’s loyalty was commendable.

Bells ringing on the wall, reminded the servants that their service wasn’t done for the evening, and in the shuffle of tidying their appearance, and rising to return to work, Sherlock used the covering noise to lean down by his valet’s ear. “Goodson, don’t look up but I’m right here.” Sherlock whispered. “Meet you in the pantry at the end of the hall for a report.”

The man nodded almost imperceptibly, and Sherlock moved quietly, careful not to bump against anyone, down the hall and into the small unlit storage area. Sherlock figured that Goodson would feel less self conscious talking to thin air in a spot nearly too dark to see in anyway.

“Report?” Sherlock whispered as soon as his valet joined him.

“I kept an eye on Mrs. Garrott, as you asked, sir.” Goodson said, keeping his voice low as well. “She’s been supervising the staff as usual – all normal activity, except that she filled a basket with food from the kitchen and hid it behind her chair in the servants’ hall.”

“Excellent” Sherlock nodded forgetting that the valet couldn’t see him. “Good work. You’re free to return to your room, and if you wouldn’t mind keeping an ear out for John? I left him sleeping.”

“Very good, sir.” The valet replied turning.

“And Goodson?”

“Yes, sir.” He halted.

“I . . . erm, thank you for not contributing any disgruntled tales to the conversation back there.”

Goodson actually chuckled. “To be honest sir, when you serve a family of mages . . . it pays to be circumspect.”

“I suppose it does.” Sherlock said, somewhat chagrined. “Good night, Goodson.”

“Good night, sir.” The man said, turning to make his way to the staircase.

Sherlock found Mrs. Garrott on her way toward the party rooms. He fell into step behind her, flattening against a wall whenever another servant hurried by. Though no one was likely to see him through the spell, an accidental touch would break the illusion instantly.

The gathering had markedly dwindled, the sudden absence of Lady Basketville certainly adding a damper to the night’s gaiety. Mrs. Garrott directed footmen and maids as they hefted food trays to return to the kitchen and Sherlock slipped past her, surveying the dregs of the dinner party as he waited. Only a few diehards lingered at the tables, Victor Trevor among them as he sat at a table entertaining Kitty Riley and her top-heavy friend, Lady Penelope. They laughed over glasses of wine and sliced cake ignoring the servants as they cleaned around them.

Victor leaned toward Kitty, a grin stretched across his not uncomely face, as he purred some quip in a gravely burr. She touched her throat, fluttering her eyes, before throwing her head back to laugh too loudly at whatever he’d said. Sherlock could see the predictable dance of courtship, tease and retreat, question and answer. Victor obviously had the woman in his sights, and was closing in for the kill, but Kitty was the one laying a trap in wait, and it might not be what Lord Trevor had in mind when he tumbled in.

“Oh, Vic. Not that one.” Sherlock muttered beneath his breath. “That kitty has claws.” He shouldn’t interfere. Victor was a big boy. But against his better wisdom, Sherlock found himself making his way over to their table just the same.

Thankfully Victor and friends were sat at a table by the wall, and he was able to sidle up behind them quite undetected. Digging in his pocket for a small coin, Sherlock's hand closed over a silver bit that he flipped neatly into the air above their table. The coin turned visible as it left his hand, sparkling in the candlelight as it arced over the trio.

“Oh my!” Lady Penelope cried out, spotting the small projectile first.

As the three of them turned toward the distraction, Sherlock leaned in and whispered next to Kitty’s ear in his best, spot-on Victor Trevor drawl, “Aw, Kitty. You know I’d take you to bed, luv, if you didn’t have tits like a pancake.”

All notice of the wayward silver coin was quickly forgotten as Kitty reared back and slapped Victor soundly across the left cheekbone. “Lord Trevor, you cad. I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on Earth. Come Penny.” She snapped. “I think it’s time we were elsewhere.” Lady Penelope seemed confused, but quickly gathered her wrap to follow an irate Kitty as she stormed from the room.

Victor looked so shocked, fingers held to his face, mouth half open as he stared after them. Sherlock had to swallow down the laugh burbling up his throat in response. The whole thing pleased his inner twelve year old immensely, but it had been for a good cause. _You’d thank me if you knew her better, Vic old boy. That one is a meltdown waiting to happen._

A glance across the room showed him Mrs. Garrott was in motion again, and Sherlock left Victor to his own devices to trail after her. Sherlock was quite pleased as he watched the woman collect the basket she had squirreled away in the servants’ lounge, and make her way purposefully toward the stairs. She did her best to look nonchalant, but a tension in her shoulders broadcast the news that was doing something she considered improper. This was it – he was sure of it, the big reveal.

Sherlock walked as close behind her as he dared, nearly gleeful as he watched Mrs. Garrott pausing to light a taper from a large candle by the stairs. She pushed her basket to the crook of a bent elbow, and holding the small candle to illuminate the way, began her slow climb up the stairwell. The modest light threw wildly-stretched shadows about the cramped space, and the woman’s breath came harshly, as she leaned on the railing to move past the first floor on to the servants’ area on the second. Sherlock crept after her several steps behind as quietly as he could manage. The sonorous chime of a clock boomed from somewhere in the depths house. Sherlock counted the beats reaching twelve before it was done – the witching hour. How appropriate a time for dark secrets to be revealed. The housekeeper opened the door to the top floor, and slipped through, closing it behind her. Sherlock waited patiently through five slow breaths, before opening it to follow. He caught the woman’s dark form rounding a bend in the corridor, and he hurried to catch up.

Sherlock nearly collided with the housekeeper as he cleared the turn and found the woman before a narrow door, basket at her feet, pulling a key on a chain from under her neckline. Looking both ways for any interlopers, and of course completely missing the veiled one right behind her, she quickly inserted and turned the key to unlock it. The door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges to reveal a last, very sharply canted stairway hiding within. _Ah, the attic, of course_!

Tucking the key away, the woman reclaimed the basket, and holding the candle in one hand, gathered her skirts in the other to begin her steep ascent. Sherlock quickly pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket to slip between the doorway and bolt to keep the lock from catching behind her. He waited several minutes to be certain she had reached the attic proper before cracking the door to slip inside himself. Unburdened and undoubtedly younger, he moved more lightly than the housekeeper, taking the stairs two at a time to emerge into the attic not far behind her. He easily tracked the glow of the woman’s candle as it bobbed between the stacks of boxes, and things left to gather dust unheeded in the Basketvilles’ vast attic.

When the light reached the far wall and lowered, Sherlock crept forward, barely daring to breathe. The housekeeper knelt down to knock against a small panel set low on the wall. In but a moment, the panel slid aside, and the woman pushed the candle and basket through to crawl on all fours inside. Sherlock tried mightily to glimpse what he could of the dim space within, but the panel closed quickly behind her. Much of good detective work was sheer dogged persistence, and Sherlock found a seat on an old trunk as he settled in to wait. It felt like forever and a day, though it was probably just under an hour before the panel opened, and the woman reemerged pushing a basket and candle before her again as she crawled out. Mrs. Garrett turned as the small door started to close, and Sherlock’s heart leapt as he distinctly heard the mumble of another voice answering when the woman chided “You mind now, you mind what I said.” before it slid fully shut. The old woman climbed clumsily to her feet, and picking up her things, retraced her path to the exit.

Sherlock listened patiently to her footsteps retreating down the stairs, waiting until he heard door close below before he pulled a candle from his own pocket. Lighting it from the small ceramic jar of mage flame he kept in another, he placed the light on the floor, dropping to his knees to examine the small door the woman had used. When attempts to slide it open with his fingers yielded no results, he extracted a small pocketknife and used it to wiggle the panel loose. He worked the small hatch open, and waited, tensed. When nothing happen, Sherlock pushed the candle in, and crawled cautiously inside. The ceiling of the space within was sloped, obviously located under the upper eaves of the house, but Sherlock found he could almost stand upright if he kept close to the inner wall.

Deciding that stealth was better had by keeping to darkness, Sherlock blew out the candle, and left it by the entrance. He quickly discovered that he hardly missed it though as a trail of gently glowing mage crystals lined the long, low tunnel of a space. Sherlock walked as quietly as a cat, all senses on high alert for whoever his mystery friend might be lurking about, but nothing beyond the creak of the wind blowing outside the house reached his ears.

Sherlock nearly stumbled over a couple of stools and a small table not too far into the narrow space. Obviously it was a place to eat meals, and one quite recently judging by the spill of crumbs and juice across the table top. Moving farther in revealed a nook under a small high window filled with a heap of cushions. It looked a perfect rainy-day hideaway for reading books, the sort of space he'd loved discovering while growing up in the palace. He marveled at it for a moment before pressing on to find a curtain blocking his path. Parting it as silently as possible, he stepped into a space that was much larger than what he'd seen before, almost a small room, and gasped. What filled it was amazing, simply astonishing. He couldn’t wait to get John up here to see . . .

A sudden crash had Sherlock spinning quickly, but it wasn’t fast enough. Oh stupid, _stupid_. White hot pain lanced across the back of his head as his eyes slammed shut, and darkness and the floor roared up to claim him.

~ o ~


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers something of note in the Basketvilles' attic . . . besides just a lump on the head, and John demands some time spent on holiday during their holiday.

~ o ~ 

“Johnny? It’s time to wake up, love.”

“Oh, mum, five more minutes.” John whinged, rolling to his side. He pulled the pillow over his head to block the light, and burrowed further into the straw mattress under his cheek. “Not school yet.” He mumbled.

“Now, none of that, John Hamish Watson-Holmes. Time to get up.” A firm hand shook his shoulder.

Hearing his married name in his mother’s voice more than the shaking pulled John awake. He cracked his eyes open to his favourite patchwork quilt, the one with the sailboats. He pulled it closer, enjoying its warmth, until he glanced over at his sister's empty pallet, and panicked. If slug-a-bed Harry was already up, he was beyond late and moving into missing. John fought to sit upright, his bedding falling away as he blinked into his mother's face. She looked so much younger than John could ever remember seeing her, and that was more than passing odd.

“Mum, what is it?” John rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Your husband. You need to see to him, love.” 

“Sherlock.” John frowned, looking about as if he’d see the heir to the throne of Brettona here in his childhood bedroom hiding behind the gingham curtains, or maybe perched on the old chest of drawers. 

“Not here, honey.” His mother shook her head. “You need to go up.”

“What?” John squinted trying to bring his jumbled thoughts into focus.

“Up.” His mother repeated looking a bit exasperated. Her mouth folded into the smallest of smiles as she reached out, and pushed her palm against his forehead. “NOW, son.”

John gasped and jerked upright. This time when he opened his eyes, the room was dark, and the sheets tangled about his legs a much higher thread-count. John scrabbled to light the candle on the bedside. Harry’s mattress and his old bedroom had faded away leaving the guest room in the Basketvilles’ manor solidly in its place. Despite the rapid shift in scenery, one thing remained the same, Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes Carrington remained quite missing from the room.

John hurried to pull on trousers, and shove his feet into shoes. Great GODS where had Sherlock hied off to this time? _Up,_ his mother had said in the dream – if her words really meant anything, and weren't just the result of too much wine and sugar before bedtime. Once dressed with as much as decency called for, John hurried to knock at the valet's small chamber next door. The man answered in his night shirt, his hair pushed up on one side. John regretted rousing Goodson from his sleep, but the valet snapped to attention when he spied John’s face.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Goodson, but His Highness is missing, and I fear he may be in real trouble this time."

“Just a moment, sir, and I’ll be right with you.” The man shut his door, reappearing in mere minutes as hastily dressed as John.

John had lit two candles from one guttering in the hallway by the time the valet joined him, and he passed one over.

“What do you need me to do, sir?” Goodson asked, concern in the twist of his brow.

“Up. I have a feeling we need to look up.” John said ignoring how stupid it might be to trust a dream. Still, they had to start somewhere. “We need to get to the higher floor quickly.”

“Right-o, sir. Just this way.” 

Goodson lost no time in showing John to the nearby servants’ staircase. It was dark and creaky like everything else at Basketville Hall, but John utterly ignored the ominous shadows to follow the valet upward as briskly as possible. He found he couldn’t be arsed to care about any bug-a-boos hiding in the corners now that Sherlock’s safety was at stake. The stairs deposited them into a narrower corridor bare of any carpet, and John scanned both ways considering their next move. The manor was hushed with everyone abed this deep into the night. Soon enough though, the servants would be stirring with first light to start anew.

“Where to, sir?” Goodson asked holding his candle higher to better light the hallway. A long stretch of doors that surely led to the bedrooms of the sleeping domestics stretched down the corridor. 

“I don’t want to wake everyone up if I can help it. Let’s see, he was looking for secret tunnels, places to hide . . . somewhere high up.” John tapped a fist against his forehead. Think, think . . . _the attic._ "Goodson, where do you suppose the attic would be in this great pile of stones?”

“That I can help you with sir. I helped carry some chairs down from it earlier this afternoon. If you’ll follow me please.”

John followed him down the corridor, and around a corner to arrive at a narrow door that didn’t look too different from any of the others along the hallway. John tried the doorknob. Of course it was locked. 

“Damn, now we will have to wake someone.” John swore.

“Not necessarily.” Goodson smiled. “If you wouldn’t mind holding this, sir?” He handed John his candle, and knelt carefully as he pulled a small bag from his pocket, extracting two long picks from inside.

“Goodson, you old dog. You are a man of many talents.” John watched as the valet cum housebreaker nimbly worked the picks into the keyhole.

“Well, sir,” . . . Goodson shifted something inside the mechanism with a click. He rose to his feet and turned the door knob pulling the door easily open. “One does tend to pick up interesting tidbits from time spent in Master William's service.”

“Brilliant.” John said passing him back his candle. “I could stand to . . .” Whatever John was about to say was lost as a familiar moan drifted down from the dark room above them. John lost no time dashing up the steep stairs, and pushing his way past a stack of boxes to find the missing man in question sprawled over the floor. 

“Sherlock, GODS!” John instantly dropped beside him, setting the candle aside to pat over him. 

John skimmed a hand over Sherlock's head, brushing through dark curls, and came back with a palm covered in blood. “Gallanus, no.” He glanced at the valet hovering behind him. “Goodson, keep an eye on us, wake me if any hostiles appear. I’m going in.” 

“Yes, sir, of course, sir.” The man nodded. 

John took a deep breath. Pushing a quickly rising terror aside, he slipped into his Healer’s role by rote. Laying hands to his husband, John closed his eyes and slid down. General functions were good, but an angry hum pulled him straight to the back of the skull where some tissue damage, and a hairline fracture disturbed the flow. John tugged at the layers of discord, weaving the pattern back to whole until the energies flowed smoothly again. He left a soothing “be well” command like a parting kiss as he floated back up, blinking his eyes to see Sherlock rousing under his hands.

“John. Fancy meeting you here.” Sherlock croaked. His eyes were a carefree blue like a summer’s sky, and John scowled down at him, incredulous.

“You idiot. Don’t _John,_ me. You could have been killed wandering up here by yourself. What were you thinking?” He sputtered.

“I underestimated things again. I’m sorry John, but the housekeeper, Mrs. Garrott was on the move and I needed to follow her. Goodson was instrumental in paving the way.” He said, flapping a hand toward the poor valet at his other side. The man shrugged weakly in reply.

“Oh no. Don’t go dragging Goodson into this. You told the Basketvilles not to go about the manor unescorted, and then you did exactly that. After stealing my healing talent TO PUT ME TO SLEEP. You utter GIT.”

“John.” Sherlock looked sheepish as he struggled up onto his elbows. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, but you have to come see what I found.”

“Hold on, I’m not going anywhere until you tell us what happened.” John scowled, offering Sherlock a hand to sit fully upright. 

Sherlock told them quickly of following Mrs. Garrott to the hidden passages of the attic, and his journey behind the walls before being attacked. “You have to see the rooms I found. My description won’t do it justice.” Sherlock stood and grabbing John’s candle from the floor, moved to inspect the small doorway in the wall still ajar. 

“Wait a minute.” John cautioned. “Someone just tried to kill you. How do we know we all won’t all get brained if we crawl in there? I feel like we’ve been doing nothing but patching up people’s heads since we arrived at this cursed place!”

“They weren’t trying to kill me.” Sherlock huffed. “I was clearly incapacitated on the floor. If they wanted me dead, I would be so. No, I think I frightened them, and they simply reacted. Most likely they have a number of nests like this around the manor, and have retreated to another. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe now.” He dropped to all fours. “Goodson,” he called over his shoulder. “Guard the door. Cry if you see the smallest irregularity.” 

“Yes, sir.” Goodson agreed taking up a post by the wall as if this were a perfectly reasonable request for a valet to be given in the middle of the night. 

“Goodson, you are a gem.” John said, clapping a hand to his shoulder.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice drifted back from the small opening. “Come on.” 

“Best humour him, sir. The quicker it’s seen, the quicker we’re back downstairs.” 

“True.” John said as the two men exchanged a long-suffering look that anyone who spends much time in Sherlock’s presence acquired. “Thank you for your help.” 

“Indeed, sir.” Goodson nodded.

“Jaaaaaawn.” Sherlock’s retreating calls had taken a decidedly petulant tone. Resigned to his lot, John sighed, and knelt down to crawl his way into the small space after the madman.

Sherlock stood slightly hunched over in the sloped space, and quickly led John back through the narrow living area to the larger chamber where he’d been attacked. John was pleased to see that Sherlock at least took a moment to survey the space beyond the hanging curtain before darting past it. John was about to make some quip about the foolishness of blind leaps, and then he passed the curtain, and the words died in his throat. 

The room was pulsing with patterns of light along the walls, the ceiling and even the floor. John stood and watched the tendrils of light chasing each other around the room. After a moment of marveling, he was able to step closer and see every that the surface of the space was covered in a mosaic of stones, tiles, broken shards of glass and crockery, and bits of mage crystal scattered through-out that glowed and shimmered in swirling patterns. 

“This is amazing.” John said with a low whistle.

“It is, isn’t it?” Sherlock agreed.

Once the novelty of the shifting patterns had worn off, John was able to look about the room, take more of it in. Makeshift shelves made of planks of wood and bricks lined the base of the walls, and they were covered with a dizzying array of item. Trinkets, jewelry, small toys, and household items all lay neatly displayed. Obviously things that had gone missing from around the house had been relocated to this room, but for what purpose John wasn’t sure. A broken statue lay on the floor, and Sherlock squatted to examine the pieces of what had probably been Manen, God of the seas. You could still see some of the stylized waves at his broken-off feet. 

“This looks like the chosen weapon of attack. I’m just glad it wasn’t solid stone.” Sherlock said pushing at a shard. “Plaster was hard enough on my skull.” 

“It still could have done some major damage if I hadn't gotten to you when I did.” John observed darkly. “So, this whole thing.” John gestured at the oddly beautiful room. “Gods, what _is_ all this, Sherlock?”

“It’s very aesthetically pleasing isn’t it? Must have taken weeks if not months to create.” 

“But why would someone do this?”

“Such an extensive beautification of the room indicates long-term residence, does it not?” Sherlock rose to study the mosaic more closely, brushing a finger to follow a spiral that had swirled along one wall. 

“So some deranged tramp with mad art skills has decided to hole up in the Basketville’s attic, periodically attacking people? It just doesn’t make sense.” John bent down to lift a crystal dish from its place on a shelf. “Look at all these things they stole from around the house. Why not try to sell them? Why just keep them in the attic?”

“All excellent questions. If our ghost meant to steal expensive items to resell them, storing them away in the attic defeats that objective. Keeping them here on display is like owning spoils of war, is it not?” 

“Yeh, it’s like a museum, or a shrine, like one big altar.” John mused. 

“JOHN.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “As always you are a fount of excellent ideas. I think I know exactly how we’ll catch this slippery fellow once and for all.”

John would have asked for an explanation, but Sherlock had already darted past another curtain at the far side of the room. John hurried after him, unwilling to let the man out of his sight for more than a moment. The detective led them further along the narrow space that must have run the full length of the house. Thankfully, they encountered nothing more ominous than another small room filled with more shelves crammed with all manner of things, and a mattress with a twist of bedding. Another low doorway past the makeshift bedroom opened to reveal a downward passage with a ladder inside.

John was afraid that Sherlock was about to charge inside, leading them through yet another maze of tunnels, but the man surprised him when he simply closed the door, and led the way back to the space John had now dubbed “the museum room” if only to himself.

Sherlock ripped down one of the curtains, and set about pulling things off the shelves to pile in the center of it. 

“So, what we’re taking this lot back, then?” John asked.

“Exactly.” Sherlock said placing a handful of necklaces next to a paper weight that looked like a clam. “Here, get that stuffed owl. What you said before gave me the idea – an altar. We’ll have the Basketvilles build a private ancestors’ altar for the holiday, somewhere out of the main traffic, but easily accessible to the tunnels. If we lard it up with these pretties, it will be an irresistible lure. We’ll have the altar observed at all times, and when our earthly specter comes to reclaim their spoils, we’ll have them.” Sherlock snatched his hand into a fist.

“You think that will work?”

“I’m sure of it. Chasing them through the tunnels will be a tiresome pursuit. They know the layout far better than you or I could hope to learn in a few day's time. No, this particular foe is a collector. Laying a trap is our quickest hope of snaring them.”

“Good. I can’t wait to get my hands on the cowardly bastard.” John grumbled under his breath as he poked a finger into what looked like a collection of buttons in a clear vase.

“Here, heads up.” Sherlock called out. He tossed something that John caught automatically.

“Hey, my hairbrush.” John turned the familiar item over in his hands. “Brilliant.”

“I think we can safely reclaim the things that are ours.” Sherlock said continuing to gather and transfer items to the growing pile.

“So, what do you deduce about our ghost from all this?” John asked, marveling again as the mosaic twinkled around them.

“Well, they’re obviously an Earth Mage capable of creating mage crystal. They’re hostile when confronted, but prefer to flee over fighting. I’d say they’re short, agile, and . . . they like to collect things. Anything beyond that will be pure conjecture, and I prefer to wait for more data.”

“Fair enough.” John nodded. 

“Come on.” Sherlock said gathering up the edges of the curtain to swing the heavy makeshift bag over one shoulder. “It’s time we had a chat with the Basketvilles.”

 

~ o ~

 

“Gods burn my hindquarters. A magpie living in the attic you say? Well, I never.” Lord Basketville was obviously surprised by both their revelation, and the collection of treasures that rolled out across his study floor as Sherlock opened the bundle at his feet.

“My good sewing scissors!” Lady Basketville cried bending down to pluck the recovered item from the horde.

John had made Sherlock wait a few hours until the day was not so scandalously young before rousting Lord and Lady Basketville from their slumber, but even after a short nap, and a wash, the detective was still a crackling ball of manic energy, his eyes bright with the thrill of the chase. 

“Lady Basketville, Lily,” Sherlock rounded on the woman. “Is there a place you normally set up a family altar for the Hallowtide season in a more private location?”

“Why yes, we often have a table in the small parlour on the first floor, but we decided to pass this year, what with all the altars downstairs. The servants are putting up the outdoor altar for the unknown dead on the verandah just today.”

“Excellent." Sherlock rubbed his palms together. "Have you by chance had things disappear from the family altar in that small parlour in years past?”

“Well, yes.” Lady Basketville admitted. “In fact we let go two of the maids last year when my grandmother’s brooch went missing.

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded, darting forward to fish through the pile of treasures on the floor, returning with a rather ugly gold brooch studded round with gemstones. “Would that be this bit of finery perhaps?”

“It would indeed, sir.” Lady Basketville turned slightly red as she accepted the pin from Sherlock’s hand. “What strange trickery this is. Who would care to do such a thing?”

“Who indeed!” Sherlock exclaimed. “I propose that you set up your usual altar in the smaller family parlour. Fill it with trinkets from this reclaimed loot, a variety of sweets, and your strongest incense. If we can lay just the right trap, we will have your answer sooner rather than later.”

“All right, sir, we can do that.” Lord Basketville nodded. 

“One other thing, Lord Basketville.” Sherlock hesitated, obviously thinking. “You’ll need to have your housekeeper, Mrs. Garrott, watched. She’s been helping the thief.”

“What?” Lady Basketville cried. “Oh, Henry, we must dismiss her immediately.”

“I would advise against that.” Sherlock cut in smoothly. “Firing your housekeeper will "spook" your spook. We don't want the guilty parties to know that we are on to them until we have your thief in hand.”

“Neither do we want liars and thieves on our staff!” Henry Basketville bristled hotly. 

“I understand, sir." Sherlock tapped a finger against a lip. "But playing along for a short while will bring your thief to justice. Give Mrs. Garrott another servant to train as a junior housekeeper, it will keep her occupied. She's getting on in years, and it won't be too odd. Once the ‘ghost’ has been caught, you may then do with your staff as you please.”

“All right, Your Grace.” Lord Basketville sighed.

“You’ll also want some of your footmen on guard duty round the clock for the next few days. We need several to patrol the kitchens, and public areas while another watches the altar in the family parlour. There are deep enough seats in the windows of that room that someone should be able to observe that altar whilst remaining hidden from casual view.”

“But, sir,” Lady Basketville furrowed her brow. “Our staff is so busy as it is with the party. This sort of all-night service would stretch our staff beyond their limits.”

“Lily!” Her husband cried. “Damn the party. We need to do what we must to catch this villain. I’ll not have a dangerous element loose on my property a minute more than needed.”

Milady,” Sherlock gentled his voice as he turned to Lady Basketville, “ _Amat victoria curam_ \- victory likes careful preparation. If you wish to best the intruder, this is the safest plan. Your staff will appreciate not being let go for crimes they did not commit in the future. But I would not ask others to shoulder what I am not prepared to do myself. Lord John and I are perfectly capable of watching the baited altar in the darkest hours when an encounter is likeliest. If all goes according to plan our watch should not take more than a day, two at the latest.”

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, not having heard this part of the plan ahead of time, but he held his tongue as his husband spooled out his schemes for ending the Basketville’s torment.

“Good. We can make the necessary arrangements, can’t we dearest?” Lord Basketville turned a stern eye to his wife. 

“Yes, dear, of course.” She nodded tightly.

“Do bear in mind, and this should go without saying.” Sherlock paused to glance around at all assembled in Lord Basketville’s study, “At no point should anyone mention that we are looking to trap the ghost of the manor. Merely mention that you have decided upon increased security for the duration of the party if asked. If not asked, say nothing.” 

“Well, of course, Prince William.” Lady Basketville all but rolled her eyes. “We don’t wish to frighten all of our guests at our first successful social event in years.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock said. “We certainly don’t want anyone to be afraid at All Hallow’s.” Sherlock made to leave, and motioned to John to go ahead of him. “Ah, and speaking of All Hallow’s . . .” Sherlock turned back to the Basketvilles as if something had just occurred to him. “Do you have a service planned for Samhain day at the manor?”

“No, not on premises, Your Grace.” Lord Basketville said. “There is a temple very nearby in the village however that holds special services at midday and eventide on Samhain. We had plans to ferry over any guests who wished to visit.” 

“Good.” Sherlock slid his eyes briefly to John. “My husband and I should like to attend.”

A smile tugged at John’s lips. Sherlock always did this. Just when he thought him oblivious to everything extraneous on some mad search for clues, the genius would stop to remember something important to him.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Lord Basketville said. “We are so greatly in your debt already. If you solve this, well, whatever we can do to pay you back . . . just say the word. If it is within my power, I will grant it.” 

“An answer to the puzzle, sir, will be reward enough for now.” Sherlock said tipping his head slightly to the side to study the man. “We’ll see about the other later, shall we?”

 

~ o ~

 

“Try not to look so happy.” John cautioned a scowling Sherlock as he pulled him across the yard. “People will talk if you look too giddy.” 

“John,” Sherlock huffed. “I don’t _do_ this sort of thing.”

“I know, but I’ve had enough of you crawling through tunnels, and being bashed on the head.” John said firmly. “You've nothing on until this evening, and you need some fresh air. Healer’s orders! Besides,” he added in a softer voice, “it’s All Hallows’ Eve, and I WANT to go on a sodding hayride through the country with my husband, all right?” 

The gorgeous madman looked somewhat cowed at that, and he stopped dragging his heels to walk more amiably at his side. “All right, John.” He agreed.

Sherlock had spent the middle part of the day checking on the Basketville’s progress in implementing his plan. Once he was satisfied that the altar was set in the family parlour with a footman to watch it, John had swooped in to demand some recreation time. A wagon ride scheduled to trundle guests about the countryside to a picnic tea seemed just the ticket to get them away from gloom and ghosts, at least for an afternoon.

They joined the other guests milling behind the house wrapped in stylish cloaks to ward off the slightest chill in the air. Sherlock had been so busy chatting his way through the party earlier, that many now felt free to cluster around and shake his hand. John simmered watching as all the social preening followed its ritual dance steps. Sherlock looked on the verge of panic though when John stepped in and rescued him, making excuses that they had a bet to settle, and must be excused posthaste to attend to it.

“What bet was that John?” Sherlock whispered as John spirited him away from his admirers.

“I bet myself I could get us out of that crush by throwing ourselves on the good graces of the Summerset ladies.” John whispered, steering them toward Lady Ada and Lady Sharon who had just joined the crowd.

Sherlock chuckled as they drew abreast of the Summersets, both looking quite fashionable in their outdoor gear. The ladies smiled brightly, Ada waving her fingers at John.

“Good afternoon Lord John, Your Highness.” Lady Sharon sketched a small curtsy. “Pray tell, what is so amusing? We could use a good jest.”

“Not amusing so much terrifying.” John said. “Please, protect us. I think everyone here wants to touch Prince William, and bend his ear until it falls off.”

“Ah, it’s hard being notorious.” Lady Sharon nodded sagely, a smile hovering about her lips. “Never fear, we will be your guard dogs.” Sharon stepped closer to threat her arm through Sherlock’s, nodding at Ada to do the same with John. 

Ada smiled almost shyly at John as they linked arms. “Hullo, John” she said. 

“Hullo, you.” John smiled back. “All right?”

Sharon pulled the four of them into a cozy little circle, and miraculously, the rest of the party goers took the hint and let them be. Lady Sharon then entertained them all with a hilarious tale of the lengths she had to go to avoid a particularly irksome suitor while she waited for Lord Colin to ask for her hand. “ . . . and they didn’t find my shoes in the rain barrel until the next day. Honestly, I took a fancy to Colin the moment I laid eyes on him, but he was too shy to take any of my hints for the longest time.” The woman smiled in the telling, her eyes sliding over John. Sherlock frowned slightly watching her.

The wagons to transport them on their outing arrived interrupting another of Lady Sharon’s tales, and she promised to finish it later as everyone queued to find seats. The wagons were lined with haybales as makeshift benches, but covered in lengths of cloth so as not to muss the gentle folks’ fancy clothing. 

“How quaint. HAY seats.” A woman in a fur wrap tittered beside them.

“Yes, it’s so very rustic, isn’t it?” Her friend replied. “It’s just all the thing, don’t you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at it, but remained silent. He waved off the footmen who stood at the ready helping people climb into the wagons, and scampered up nimbly on his own. John made sure Lady Sharon and Lady Ada had made their way up safely before pulling himself into the wagon as well. People were shuffling around, finding their choice seats however they determined this in a hay wagon. The four of them ended up with John and Sherlock beside each other, Lady Sharon at Sherlock’s other side, and Lady Ada sat next to John.

“Budge up if you don’t mind, please.” A footman called out urging people to move inward and make space for the others still boarding. John realized he’d left space between himself and Sherlock, and he was just about to slide over when a body crashed down between them, knocking everyone aside. It was of course, Lord Victor Trevor . . . again. Gods, the man was like a bad tune you couldn’t keep out of your head. 

“How lovely to see you two chaps. You’ve been scarce! Hope you haven’t been up to anything too naughty.” He winked as he stretched out both his arms to lay behind John and Sherlock in the tight squeeze. 

“Oh, you know just the usual depravity of the upper crust - too little exercise and too many calories.” Sherlock drawled as he shifted his hips a bit farther away. “I can see you’ve been reveling in that yourself lately, Victor.” Sherlock reached over to prod Victor’s stomach through his waistcoat. 

The man was by no means skinny, but if he were fat, then John was a butter roll he thought darkly. He was annoyed at the few pounds he’d gained recently.

Victor merely threw back his head and laughed at the barb. “Oh, if that were my only sin, I would be a better man. This one though,” He tipped his head to indicate Sherlock, “he was all skin and bones when I first met him. It came in handy when we needed someone to get through a small space though, didn’t it? Remember that night we broke into my cousin’s office? You shimmied up a drain pipe to climb in that little window. Like to give me a heart attack when the pipe broke away from the wall. Part monkey, I think he is.” 

Sherlock laughed despite himself, and soon the two of them were chuckling away over several misdeeds of a badly-spent youth. John felt a growl building in his throat when Victor’s hand casually curved over his husband’s side, and Sherlock leaned into the man. The horses pulling their wagon started forward, jostling everyone and thankfully stopped John from saying something that he would probably have regretted later. Ada nearly tumbled into his lap, blushing fetchingly, and John found himself smiling as he helped her back to her seat. 

“All right, Lady Ada?”

“Yes, of course, so sorry, Lord John.”

“No harm done.” John said kindly. “See, you’ve hardly dented me.”

“It’s funny isn’t it?” Ada whispered a moment later, wrinkling her nose as she glanced about their company. “Riding in a hay wagon is such a quaint old thing for everyone here, but when I was growing up, it was just how we got into town.”

“When you were lucky enough not to need your own two feet that is.” John chuckled. 

The ride was a pretty route through rolling hills and changing leaves, and John found himself thinking on odes to the glory of Mother Nature in all her finery. She was certainly dressed up smartly today in her glorious autumn shades of rich reds, golds, and rusty browns. 

His eye also wandered over his fellow passengers, and he couldn’t help singling out Monsieur Antoine Croque in the small group. He’d spent the better part of the week tailing the man after all. The Gallatian was looking dapper as always, and quite well accessorized with another attractive woman, a Mrs. Ruggles, snugged up against him in a corner of the wagon. He muttered something at the woman’s ear, and she giggled like a schoolgirl as she swatted him on the arm. Angus, the God of Lovers, could take charm lessons from this one John thought with a smile.

A collective squeal erupted as the wagon jolted sharply over a rut in the road. This time Lady Ada fell against the woman next to her, and Victor Trevor pitched into John. Victor took the opportunity to wrap his arm around him, pulling him closer as they righted, all without turning his head from his coze with Sherlock. It was a well-done move, and John decided just to let him have it. The man was surprisingly comfortable, and he smelled unfairly good. John relaxed against him with a small sigh. Victor was mostly harmless he thought just as the fellow shifted his hand to place his thumb directly over the back of John’s neck, and stroke gently upward. John was surprised when a jolt of pure lust shot straight to his groin. He elbowed Victor sharply in the ribs for that maneuver, and the pretty lordling smoothly moved his hand back to a safer spot on John’s shoulder. 

“Don’t you agree, Lord John?” Victor finally turned his head to address him directly.

“I'm sorry, what was that, Lord Trevor?” John asked politely.

“People just don’t attend enough to their correspondence. At times they let their letter writing lapse completely into the weeds. It’s simply ill mannered. Why, I’ve waited weeks to get replies back to missives I’ve sent out as people forget me completely.” 

“I have trouble believing anyone could ever forget you, Lord Trevor.” John told him quite honestly.

A grin spread across Victor’s face right before Sherlock smacked him across the back of the head. “Ow.” He cried at the assault.

“Victor, stop flirting with my husband, and tell me how your brother solved the drainage problem on your estate. I want to know which solution best worked.” Sherlock huffed.

Victor sighed. “You have no romance in your soul, dear man, not a bit." But he said so with another chuckle, as he swiveled to resume their chat. 

Sherlock leaned back slightly to catch John’s eye behind Victor, and raised an eyebrow. _All right?_

 _Yes, fine, love._ John smiled back. _Though Victor is an arse._ He rolled his eyes toward the man. 

_Always. What can you do?_ Sherlock rolled his own eyes and shrugged in agreement. 

“William, are you even listening?” Victor complained, and Sherlock turned back to face him. 

“Yes, Victor, copper pipes, I heard. Very interesting.”

The wagons rocked to a stop as they reached their destination, a clearing by a small stream, and the servants appeared to help guests down. In short order, cloths and cushions were spread on the ground for those who wished to sit, and hampers unpacked, with food and drink made quickly ready. 

The guests took the opportunity to stretch their legs a moment, and then began the complicated dance of milling about to speak to those they had not greeted earlier. At length, Sherlock and John found themselves alone for a few minutes standing to the side of the clearing drinking glasses of crisp wine as the flock swirled around them. 

“Look at them. Mingling.” Sherlock gestured to the crowd as he took a sip of his wine.

“Oh, love, it’s not so terrible as all that is it? At least we’re getting some fresh air.” John said snaking his arm around him to pat his hip fondly.

John spied Antoine Croque again. This time the suave creature was on a blanket with both Mrs. Ruggles and another woman he didn’t know at either side. They were all feeding each other bits of cheese and cracker, and giggling away.

“He pearl dives.” John said, nudging Sherlock as he pointed with his chin toward the merry threesome. 

“Hmmm? John. What?” Sherlock asked, surfacing from some reverie.

“Our man, Cheesy, over there. He eats box lunch. Must do.” John gestured toward the gentleman and friends in question with his glass before taking a sip.

Sherlock finally glanced in the direction where M. Croque and the ladies sat in their happy huddle, and narrowed his eyes.

“The man speaks in tongues.” John said. “Licks the honeypot? Whistles in the dark? Munches the bearded clam?” He continued warming to his subject. “Frankly, there aren’t that many straight men that will go down on a partner.” He added at Sherlock’s seeming incomprehension. “He must be a right genius at it too by the looks of it. I mean he’s a stringy-looking fellow, but I’ve seen him with over half of the women at the party in his lap. Honestly, if he isn’t giving excellent lady head then I just don’t see the appeal.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow as he focused on his husband. “John, if you are so colloquially referring to cunnilingus, then I can agree that he probably does excel in that skill set. Just look at him, very orally focused. Plus . . . Gallatians. They do have a reputation to maintain.” 

John glanced back at Antoine Croque just in time to see that the man was now nibbling blue cheese off Mrs. Ruggle's fingers in a decidedly non-platonic manner.

“Hmmph.” John grunted in satisfaction. “You know,” He leaned closer to Sherlock to continue in a lower voice, “you never did tell me why we needn’t bother with the cheese sandwich anymore. I mean first he was priority number one to watch out for, and now he’s nothing special. What did you find out?”

Sherlock lifted the glass of fine claret they were all consuming, and held it up to the light. 

“Your answer lies within your hand, John.” 

“The wine?” John asked lifting his own glass to study.

“Just so.” Sherlock nodded. “He’s up to something, but it’s nothing to do with plotting against the crown. Got a brother in Gallatia with a large wine orchard? A stranglehold on trading with Brettona under the new stricter tariff laws? What’s an enterprising diplomat to do but cash in on his contacts, and start a brisk trade in under-the-table table wines. The cheese sandwich is a smuggler.”

“Really?” John dropped his jaw. 

“Yep.” Sherlock enjoyed popping the last consonant of the word. “Victor’s helping him with it too.” He said taking another drink. “He’s providing Cheesy with enough contacts to make inroads among the beau monde. They’re doing quite well, and I must admit. I’m thinking of buying a case of their port. It’s hard to get that good a quality in Delphium these days.”

“But King Mycroft . . . won’t he shut this all down when you tell him?”

“Why would he do that? Half of the port will be for him. No, don’t look that way, John.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s simple logic. A diplomat involved in illegal trading will be working hard to keep the rest of his reputation squeaky clean. He’s so busy touting his wines, and watching his back, he’ll have no interest in muddying the waters with anything as dirty as espionage. Mycroft will no doubt inform the two that he knows about their operation, and with a nice shipment sent his direction each Yuletide, he’ll be more than happy to look the other way. It will effectively keep both Antoine and Victor out of anything truly dangerous.”

“Aristocrats.” John rolled his eyes. “Give me a nice simple bar fight to settle any day.”

“This involves less fuss and muss on the apparel. Ah, Victor, didn’t they have the fairy cakes with the pink sugar then, those are blue!” Sherlock called out as Lord Trevor rejoined them with a plate piled high with various treats.

“You are a caution.” Victor sighed. “A simple thank you will suffice.” He held the plate out as Sherlock unceremoniously chose a large cake on top. 

"Mmm." He said, sinking his back teeth into it.

“Ta, Victor.” John said more courteously as he picked a piece of shortbread from the side.

“You’re welcome, sir.” Victor dipped his head graciously to John as he picked out a cake of his own to tap against John’s in salute. “At least someone here has manners.”

“Victor, you have the manners of an alley cat unless its suits your purpose.” Sherlock sniffed.

“At least I clean up well when I need to.” Victor agreed amiably.

“That you do.” Sherlock said, a small smile about his lips as he slid his eyes sideways to better observe the man. “That you do, sir.”

 

~ o ~

 

Dusk was rapidly approaching as the group of wagons deposited the guests safely back at the drive of Basketville Hall. The hulking stone structure looked even less inviting in the dying light, and John was happy to linger outside watching as the servants readied a large bonfire for the evening’s festivities.

“Stay, at least to watch the lighting.” John tugged on Sherlock’s arm as he made to return indoors. 

“All right, John.” Sherlock smiled, and followed him to stand near the knot of people who hadn’t hurried off to change their clothes and prepare for supper.

A great pile of logs were stacked in a pyramid, and they watched as a footman approached with a lit twig to set the tinder at the bottom ablaze. It was glorious watching the flame as it crawled its way up the wood, dancing like a live thing in the gathering dark.

The group cheered their approval, and someone started up an old chant that others quickly jumped in to follow:

Hurrah for our bonfire,  
Oh, pile it up high,  
For tonight...yes tonight...  
When it blazes up bright  
A traitor must die!  
How he'll crackle and burn,  
Our jolly old Guy!  
In the middle we'll throw him,  
No mercy we'll show him,  
The traitor must die!

It was a tale from some historical misdeed. John only vaguely knew the details. Someone had tried to blow up the Council of Lords building with gunpowder around this time of year, and was stopped just in time. To commemorate the miss, people would, forever more it seemed, throw a stuffed dummy to represent the traitor onto their Samhain bonfires. So went the story, but John figured it was just an excuse to add a bundle of rags to the flames for the joy of watching it burn. The light would flare that much brighter, and push back the night if only for a moment. John looked to the side of the bonfire, and sure enough, a scarecrow of sorts lay on the ground, to be burned most likely in some ceremonial flourish later in the evening.

The temperature had dropped with the sun's departure, and while heat built in the crackling fire before them, John’s backside was still quite chilly. By some instinct, Sherlock moved to wrap himself behind him, tucking his head beside John's as arms encircled his waist.

“It’s all so barbaric, isn’t it? Burning effigies and celebrating sacrifice?” He murmured by John’s ear.

“We have to do something to bide our time in the dark.” John answered, covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. “Though I can think of a few other things to do besides bonfire parties.” John murmured rubbing back against Sherlock’s front. He was rewarded with a slight catch in his husband’s breath.

“John.” Sherlock rumbled against him. “I’m sorry. I’m still not taking care of you like a proper husband, am I?” 

“We take care of each other.” John said squeezing Sherlock’s forearms. “It’s all right. I know how much you want to catch this ghost. I just don’t want you up all night waiting for it. What if I take the first shift and you go catch some shut-eye? You never even went to bed last night, love.”

“Ah, I’m too keyed up.” John could feel Sherlock shaking his head beside him. “I couldn’t sleep now even if I wanted to. How about you give me a few hours holding vigil, and then come spell me. I promise I’ll go kip a few solid hours before I come back to relieve you. I know you need your beauty rest, Watson.” Sherlock dropped a small kiss to John’s temple.

“You’re too beautiful by far without any rest, love, but you still need to sleep some time! You’re sure we can’t leave the Basketvilles’ footmen to guard this blasted altar tonight?” John twisted in Sherlock’s embrace to meet his gaze. "I could lay a sleeping command over you for a quick rest."

“Sadly, I see those young chaps nodding off right when the specter decides to strike.” Sherlock chuckled. “If our sneak thief slips this noose, I’m not sure what our next chance will be. No, we’re too close. I don’t want to bodge this up.”

“What precautions do you have? This one’s a tricky bastard to be sure.” John tried to keep the concern out of his voice.

“I’ve got a living rope, and a freezing bomb. If one doesn’t get him the other will. Don’t worry, this baddie won’t stand a chance.” Sherlock reassured him.

“All right, love, give us a kiss then before you go. It’s good luck to snog before the bonfire, you know.” John smiled a cheeky grin.

“Well, finally a custom that has some use to it.” Sherlock said pulling John to him. 

John slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist while his husband cupped the sides of his face, threading his fingers into his hair. Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, and the soft press of lips grew instantly heated as tongues dipped together. The popping fire, and the susurrus of conversation around them faded away as John could only think of this man, this gorgeous creature in his arms. When Sherlock finally pulled away, a thread of worry danced in his eyes.

“You’re sure, John, sure you’ll be all right if I leave you?”

“Course I’m sure, you numpty. What are going on about? I was a foot soldier in the Gallatian Wars, remember?” John mimed an upper cut to Sherlock's jaw, and Sherlock caught his fist easily, opening it to lay a kiss over his palm. “It’s just a country house party after all.” John added with a smile shaking his head.

“It’s not your fighting prowess that concerns me, my love." Sherlock kept John's hand cradled between his two. "There are a number of sharks circling the waters at this gathering, and I fear you are a tempting catch of unprecedented worth.”

“Hmmph.” John grumbled. “Not an idiot either.” 

“No, John, you aren’t. What was I thinking." Sherlock released his hand. "Wish me luck in my own hunt, then.” Sherlock looked wistful, and John pulled him close to catch his mouth in another kiss. Sherlock gave John's arse a final pat, and then he was off, his long legs carrying him swiftly across the lawn.

" Good luck." John sighed watching his husband's retreating form until he melted into the dark. 

“Oh dear, you aren’t here all alone, Lord John, are you?” Hardly a minute had passed before John looked up to see Lady Kitty moving his way looking lovely in a bright red wrap. 

“Sadly, yes, dear lady. My husband had a touch of a headache and went to lie down.” John told her looking convincingly sad.

“Ah, well, we can be two singles keeping each other company together then.” Kitty smiled as she took John’s arm. “Oh brrr, it’s definitely gotten colder out here.”

“Well, it is the dark half of the year now.” John smiled. “It will be quite a journey till we’re back to spring again.” John glanced about. Night had fallen in earnest around him.

“Ah, true. Sometimes I can take the cold over the incessant dark. It gets so dreary doesn’t it? Dark so late in the morning, and then dark again before dinner. It’s utterly depressing.”

“Well as a wise man once said ‘Where there is light, there must also be shadow.’ It’s a balance surely.” John shrugged. “But I agree. Winter can be a right pain in the arse, quite literally when you’re slipping on a patch of ice, hmm?” 

Lady Kitty tittered a laugh. A servant passed by with a platter of warm drinks steaming in the cool air, and Kitty called out to her. “Ooh, what do you have there, dear?” 

“Spiced cider.” The young woman drew near to offer her tray. “Would you care for one, milady?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Kitty said helping herself to a cup. "Lord John?” 

“Please.” John said, reaching for his own. 

The drink was a welcome heat, tasting pleasantly sweet with foreign spices that woke up the tongue. John took a grateful swallow, warming his hands around the cup.

“I know it’s the start of all the dark, but I’ve always liked All Hallows.” John admitted as they sipped companionably, watching as the servants fed more logs to the glowing coals. A larger crowd had gathered as people drifted over from the house, and the bonfire was feeling more properly festive.

“How so, Lord John? I must admit to preferring the spring holidays myself." Kitty said. "The start of something new is always so thrilling even if it just mud and jonquils.”

“Oh, I suppose I always liked the mystery and the fun of All Hallows – going begging, and pulling pranks. Always enjoyed the pranks." John chuckled, staring into the fire. "It’s quite the lark when you’re a child, isn’t it, and the ancestors’ altar is just a pretty display, and not your mother’s thimble on the shelf to remember her by. I must admit, honoring the dead is sadder when there’s more of your family on the other side than this one.” John felt near mesmerized by the changing shapes in the twisting flames.

“I have to admit, I was not unhappy to bid my rotten husband good-bye.” Lady Kitty shuddered slightly, “But I’ve a painting of a little black dog named Pepper that I remember every year. It’s funny the creatures that can stick in your heart, isn’t it?”

“It is.” John agreed. He realized then the maudlin turn the conversation had taken. “Have you dined Lady Kitty? I was just about to go inside for supper. Would you care to join me?”

“I’d love to, sir.” Kitty said, and she tucked her arm into John’s as they strolled back towards the house, leaving their cups with another servant.

A burble of childish laughter caught John's attention. “Look at that.” He said, turning toward a line of bobbing lights moving in the dark ahead of them. The small procession turned out to be a group of children in disguise as they entered the halo of light by the kitchen door. They looked quite a sight carrying their turnip lanterns in their mother's sheets, or father’s too big caps and jackets, their faces covered with silly masks. A tall one was brave enough to step forward and bang at the door.

“It must be some children from the village come begging for All Hallows. How sweet.” Kitty said, and they stopped for a moment to watch. 

One of the kitchen girls, it looked like Sarah answered the knock with a basket in her arms. “Trick or treat!” the children cried. Sarah exclaimed over the little visitors, pulling out cakes to hand each one. 

“I was never allowed to go begging.” Kitty sighed. “My mother said it wasn’t proper. Cook would feel sorry for me, and make a special pudding for the holiday, but I always longed to go guising with the other village children.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry you missed out on it. It was grand.” John said squeezing her arm. “Dressing up like someone new, creeping around after dark, half terrified that you’d meet up with a faery or monster that would drag you off - it was magic. Everything felt _changed_ on All Hallows, like simply anything could happen.” He glanced up at the pinpricks of light laid out like crystals overhead, and sucked in a breath of cold air. You could see so many more stars at night when you got out of the city.

“Oh, look, how sad. It’s a crippled one.” Kitty nudged him, pointing toward the visitors at the kitchen door. The main group of little beggars had scampered off, but another child had limped up last, holding out its bag. The figure was covered round in bits of sheet like a mummy, but limping horribly as if they had some ailment. John might guess a clubbed foot, one leg looked shorter than the other, but it was hard to tell from a distance. 

“Poor tyke.” John said. “I’ll wager their parents couldn’t afford a proper healer.” He felt such a wave of compassion for the strange child wash over him. The servant girl Sarah must have felt the same as she handed the little mummy the three or four cakes left in her basket. The child mumbled its thanks, and limped back into the night. 

“It’s why I went in to medicine.” John said suddenly feeling angry as well. “To stop suffering like that. It’s not right when decent folk don’t have access to basic healing.” 

“You’re a good one.” Lady Kitty said kindly, shivering only slightly beside him. 

“Oh, you’re getting cold. Look at me standing here nattering on. Let’s get you inside, and see about supper.” John urged them toward the side door ahead. 

“Indeed, sir." Kitty agreed. "You’ve got me thinking about the treacle tarts my old cook used to make at All Hallow's. Maybe if we’re lucky, they might have some here too.”

“Are you a treacle tart fan as well? They're one of my favourites.” John smiled as he held the door open for her. “After you, milady.”

“You are too kind, Lord John.” Kitty flashed him a brilliant smile in return as they swept inside to what warmth and light could be found within.

~ o ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers, I've spent some time doing a fun mash-up of holidays for this alternative world. Let me see if I can break it all down.
> 
> All Hallows is a time designated in our world for a Christian set of holidays - All Saints' day and All Souls' day at the beginning of November. The first day is of course to celebrate the lives of Saints, while the second is to remember your personal dead.
> 
> In this time and place, we have instead Samhain - a Celtic Pagan holiday pronounced "sow-en" which many think means "summer's end" to honor the dead on Nov. 1st, and All Souls' day which is meant to be a Pagan equivalent to its Christian cousin the day after.
> 
> All Hallows' eve is the name given for the night before the two holidays, and of course in our world is better known by its more recent incarnation of "Halloween." This secular holiday of costumes and scary fun originated in the U.S., and while kids going "trick or treating," asking door to door for candy is a very modern practice, customs of begging for food or money from well-off neighbors has long been part of many British Isles celebrations - though generally around mid-winter time at Christmas or New Year's day. 
> 
> Bonfire Night is of course part of Guy Fawkes day and something that generally happens on November 5th in Great Britain, though here I've mashed it up with Halloween, and bits of both holidays take place on October 31st for a big goulash of autumn holiday goodness. Hope you enjoy!


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samhain brings both a trip to a temple in the sunshine, and a meeting with creatures most curious in the darkest depths of the night.

~ o ~ 

Gravel shifted and crunched under John’s feet as they made their way down the Basketvilles' drive. The air was crisp, and John welcomed the chance to increase his step, hurrying to keep up with his husband’s longer stride. Sherlock quickly pulled farther ahead despite his efforts, and John was soon left to appreciate the man’s lithe form from behind. Sherlock could certainly play the dandy when he wished, moving with a rarified air, but John preferred to see his love in unguarded moments like this where his natural grace poured through like sunlight. The man simply moved like a panther let lose to prowl amongst the unsuspecting sheep of the countryside. 

John sighed. He hadn’t seen nearly as much of his husband as he’d wanted to this week. Dinner the night before had been a somewhat tedious affair. John’s face was growing tired of smiling and nodding at polite conversation while Sherlock sleuthed elsewhere. He’d found himself sat at a table with Lady Kitty Riley, and M. Antoine Croque who had Miss Mary Morstan by his side, his afternoon companions having rejoined their husbands for the evening meal, and another couple he hadn’t known. Talk had turned to the latest autumn fashions, and John had been too polite to say he couldn’t give a rat’s arse about the new length of sleeve ruffles. Miss Morstan had at least had the wherewithal to turn the conversation to some new herbal treatment that was all the rage with the upper crust, and John was pleased to give his expert medical opinion once asked. 

Kitty had gotten more handsy the lower her wine glass had emptied, and John had spent most of the meal graciously fending off her increasing advances. When she snaked a hand under the table to stroke up the inside of John’s thigh, John had jolted, and pleaded a touch of a headache to excuse himself from the table. He’d gone back to his bedroom, and managed a few hours of sleep before rolling awake just past midnight. 

Making his way on soft feet to the Basketvilles’ family parlour, he’d found the newly assembled altar – awash with burning candles, incense, and pretty objects, and Sherlock silently keeping guard in a hidden window seat. John had dropped down behind a settee to work his way under the hanging curtains emerging against a smiling husband. Sherlock kissed him a wordless hello, and might have taken things farther, belying the idea that it was only young footmen who would skive off guard duty, but John had whispered “Go get some sleep, you!” The man looked dead on his feet.

Sherlock refused to go back to their room, but agreed to kip on the floor with a couple of cushions behind the settee. John would have let him sleep the rest of the night there if he would, but Sherlock had popped up after only two hours, and insisted John head to bed. “I don’t want your shoulder acting up.” Sherlock whispered when John offered to sleep on the floor as well. Even though his old war wound had healed nicely, his shoulder still bothered him on occasion after overuse. John agreed, and after a parting kiss, quietly returned to his bed for what was left of the night.

Sadly, their fractured evening turned out to be all for naught. When Sherlock joined John for breakfast after a footman had relieved him from parlour duty, it was with the disappointing news that not a single ghost real or otherwise had made an appearance.

“I miscalculated.” Sherlock sighed, pushing his eggs around his plate.

“Ah, love, you’ll get it. There’s still tonight.” John said touching his arm. Then the Summersets had joined their table, and the conversation had turned to lighter subjects. 

 

~ o ~

 

Several of the guests staying at the manor had taken up the Basketville’s offer of a ride into town for Samhain services. Sherlock and John joined the group gathered by the carriages being readied. Lord Basketville was nowhere in evidence, but Lady Basketville looked quite regal in a sweeping dark cloak tipped with some white animal fur, her wrapped wrist hidden under her long sleeves. She was happily chatting away with a knot of other grand persons also fashionably turned out, and John had to hide his chuckle. He hadn’t worked as an initiate priest at a temple for the better part of a year and not learned to spot those who simply came to “see and be seen” at services. He chided himself almost instantly for such uncharitable thoughts though. No one was exempt from losing friends and family, and many who wouldn’t darken a temple’s door at other times of the year, showed up at Samhain to honour passed loved ones. The Grim Reaper made no exceptions for anyone’s station in life when he came calling.

Sherlock shot John an apologetic look as he was instantly pulled into a conversation with the well-dressed folk. John waved him off, and took his chance to slip out of sight, stepping over to admire the horses being hitched to the coach. The Basketvilles definitely kept excellent animals whatever their other faults might be. 

“Ah, you’re a fine one aren’t you?” John crooned patting the neck of a proud-looking bay, glancing over as a servant led a matched gelding to harness alongside it. It was none other than Jonathan from the stables, and the young man ducked his head sheepishly when he spied John. 

“Good Day, Your Grace.” 

“It is a good day, isn’t it?” John said, turning his eyes toward the sky. Despite the cool of the late morning, the sun looked to be breaking through the clouds, and it promised to be a bright afternoon.

“Indeed, sir.” The man kept his head down, and John cursed inwardly at how annoying it could be at times to have joined "the quality." Being a lord certainly had its drawbacks as well as its privileges. 

“These two are both beauties.” John exclaimed, determined to have a conversation this morning with someone who kept their brains between their ears and not in their wallets or their pants. 

“Aye, sir.” The youth nodded, as he pulled the horse in, and took up the straps to affix him to the coach.

The horse shook his head with a loud whinny, and made to move away, but John stepped in, catching his reins by his mouth to halt him. “Whoa there, my good sir.” He said as he settled the animal, patting at his neck.

“Thank you, sir.” Jonathan’s grey eyes flashed at him for a moment before returning to finish his work with the harness.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened in the stables the other day.” John ventured. “I didn’t mean to get you into any trouble with the Stable Master.”

“No worries, sir, you didn’t.” Jonathan said making quick work with the remaining buckles. “Master Harley, he’s a fair one.”

“This really is a gorgeous set of horses. I can’t think that I’ve seen anything nicer in Delphium.” 

“Thank you, sir, His Lordship keeps a fine stable.” Jonathan agreed with some pride as he stepped back, giving the horse a final stroke. “They don’t all get out as much as they used to though. This party is good for the beasties.” 

“Oh, really?”

“Oh, aye, sir. When her first ladyship was in residence, Gods Rest Her Soul, it was parties every month, and temple services twice a week . . . until she grew ill that is. I reckon these boys will remember their way to the village temple. They used to go often enough.”

“Indeed?” John raised an eyebrow. “Twice a week to the temple? The Basketvilles didn’t strike me as religious folk.”

“Not his Lordship perhaps, but his first Lady, she was right smart about making her visits to the temple. Never missed a service if she weren’t gone ill.” 

“Is it a large temple?” John asked. It was rare that little village temples did services twice a week. “I’ve not had the privilege of attending myself.”

“No, sir, but it’s a good one. I go to services there myself when I can.” Jonathan stepped in closer and dropped his voice. “Donations are anonymous, but of course everyone in town knew when the first lady left all her money to the temple on her death bed. Liked to give His Lordship fits.”

“Ah, well that’s not as odd an occurrence as you might think. Some feel they can buy the favour of the Gods with coin, when it’s really the currency of our character that interests them.” John smiled at the young man. He couldn't help dropping his gaze to Jonathan’s mouth as his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Oh, no, sir, the first Lady, she was a good one.” Jonathan said quickly making the sign of the triple blessings over himself. “I’m not meaning to speak ill of the dead.” 

“No, of course not . . .” John started.

“John.” A deep voice rumbled out startling the two of them. Sherlock had sidled up unnoticed to stand behind them. “There’s someone I wanted you to speak with.” 

“Oh, right. Sorry.” John said turning. He glanced back at the stable hand to say good-bye, but having learned his lesson once, the young man had already scuttled off. 

Sherlock scanned quickly around them before yanking open the carriage door, and pushing John inside. 

“Wha . . .” John got out before Sherlock shushed him, clambered in after to secure the door behind them. Sherlock collapsed onto a seat with a sigh flinging his forearm over his eyes.

“I’m assuming the person you wished me to speak with was you?” A wry smile tipped the side of John's mouth as he slid closer to his husband on the bench.

“John, if we go back to Delphium, and don’t speak for a month, I think it will balance out all the chin wagging I’ve had to endure this week.” Sherlock dropped his arm to turn baleful eyes John’s way. “Gods save me from the chit chat of the aspiring gentry.”

“Well, love, we can’t all be heir to the throne of Brettona, now can we?” John shrugged. “Some of have to increase our social standing by our own wits. I, myself, shagged my way into the royal family.” John smiled as he took the opportunity to swing a leg over, and climb onto Sherlock lap. “Of course, I don’t recommend it to everyone. The new wardrobe alone is hell.” 

Sherlock grunted appreciatively as John snugged his knees astride his thighs, and settled his weight onto him. Sherlock’s hands immediately found their way to the curve of John’s arse.

“That is a tricky option.” Sherlock agreed. “I think until the next generation of royals comes of age, we’re all full up with spouses at the moment. I know I have my hands full.” Sherlock punctuated his statement with a nice squeeze of John’s posterior. 

John let himself simply giggle at that. “Ah, love,” He lifted a finger to stroke down one of his husband’s glorious cheekbones. “I’m sorry it’s been a hard week for you. I knew dealing with all the people was going to be a bit much.”

“It _has_ been trying.” Sherlock agreed. “Perhaps if my Royal Consort were willing to kiss it all better?” He fluttered his long lashes at John, then tipped his head back to bare his long throat, flashing a simply melting look from under half-dropped lids. 

John would have laughed at such comic seduction if a rush of pure want hadn’t shivered right through him. With a groan, John dipped his head to kiss under that jaw, moving to claim those plump lips he loved so well. “Maybe I’ll just shag you silly? Definitely hasn’t been enough shagging lately.” John mumbled against Sherlock’s mouth as he shifted to deepen the kiss. 

Sherlock just rumbled a pleased sound from the back of his throat, and slid a hand up John’s nape to tangle in his hair. John tried to wiggle fingers down between them to better hasten things along when the sound of the coach door opening stopped them cold. John vaulted back into the seat next to Sherlock, and the two of them were nonchalantly leaning back with hands crossed politely over their laps when the first guest climbed inside. 

“Ah, Prince William, there you are!” Lady Ramsbottom called, leading the group to seat herself opposite them. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you what your thoughts were on silk inlay. Do you think the royal family will be sporting that in the next season?”

“Ah dear lady, now nice to see you again.” Sherlock smiled a false grin that nearly split his face in two. “Sadly, I couldn’t say not being privy to the fashion choices of my extended family. I myself am neutral on the topic of silk. I do believe however that Lady Rowntree, here, was discussing a new trend in muslins that she felt would be the quite the next thing.” Sherlock directed her to the woman who had sat herself on his other side, and soon the two women were expounding away on choice fabrics. John caught Sherlock’s eye, and the two tried hard not to burst into giggles as the coach jolted to life, and they were on their way. 

John settled back and let the buzz of the conversation wash over him as he looked out the window. It truly was lovely countryside, and John smiled when they passed a field with a few old standing stones, and a small group out decorating them. Two children raced around a stone with a braided cord while a fair-haired woman holding a basket of flowers looked on laughing. It was something that country folk still did – honour the stones at Hallowtide. Some said the stones were like calendars to the people of long ago – marking the changing of the seasons by the shifting shadows. No one really knew at this point, but many still left offerings there at Hallowtide to the unknown dead. 

Of course at May Day it was said to be good luck for couples wanting children to make love by the stones. That was an old wives tale for certain. Still, those hoping to conceive would often try anything. It wasn't something that would ever worry him personally John thought ruefully, passing a hand over his face. Something dark and hot throbbed deep in his heart, and he worked hard to push it back down. He was excited about Irene’s little impending traveler, he knew he was. Still, a partner father wasn’t exactly the same as a birth father. It was churlish to be feeling this way about the new baby at all, he _knew_ this, still, there it was. John sighed at where his melancholy thoughts had taken him, and turned his attention back to the inside of the coach. 

Sherlock looked at him raising an eyebrow. _Something wrong?_

John licked his bottom lip, and shook his head briefly. _Nothing important._

“I do hope the midday services won’t be too crowded.” A woman in a smart little cap said leaning in. “I hate when there’s a crush.”

“Oh well, you won’t catch me out traveling after dark.” The man next to her said with a small shudder. “No telling what evil spirits will be out on Samhain. No, it’s best to be indoors tonight.” 

“Yes, in this area especially.” Lady Rowntree added. “I heard there’s a big black ghost dog that roams the moors at night. They say anyone who leaves the main roads chances getting their throats torn out.” She made a theatrical motion of moving her finger across her throat. 

“Oooh, that’s nothing. I heard there’s a headless horseman who even attacks those who stay on the roads. He carries his head under his arm, and throws it at anyone whose souls he wants to steal.” Lady Ramsbottom added with wide eyes. “I agree, best to stay indoors.”

“What stuff and nonsense.”Sherlock snorted. “It sounds like tales from overactive imaginations, or drunkards wanting excuses for why they didn’t make it home the night before.”

“Yeh, how can that headless fellow see to aim if he’s always chucking his nob at people?” John added frowning. 

A giggle went around the carriage, and Lady Ramsbottom bristled, looking quite offended. “Jest if you wish, sir, but elements of the supernatural are best feared and respected if you don’t wish to come to a nasty end.”

Sherlock looked about to say more, but John elbowed him firmly in the side. “I’m sure you’re quite right, madam. My apologies.” John said soothingly, and the woman settled back down.

 

Although the nearby village was called Basketville-on-the-moor, it seemed to be better known for its cattle not baskets, or so a weathered wooden sign at the outskirts of town proclaimed “World’s Best Beefsteak and Clotted Cream – Market on Thursdays.” Their coach bounced its way past a few shops, and a good-sized inn before turning down a lane to arrive at the local temple. Despite the modest size of the town, the large white-washed building looked to be doing well, and was certainly large enough to hold all who had come to visit its services that morning. 

John breathed in deeply as they entered the dark hush of the front prayer room. There was just something about the smell of a temple whether it was the accumulation of incense and quiet prayers in one space, or the scent of old polished wood that set John instantly at ease. He smiled as he glanced about. A line of statues and a small sea of lit candles lined the walls of the space as expected. Despite the number of people moving along, offering prayers and lighting candles or incense, the high ceilings swallowed the noise reducing it to a mere susurrus of whispers and shuffled feet. The majority of their party headed straight for the main ritual room to find a good seat, but John peeled off to approach a statue of Gallanus, patron God of Healers, in the corner. Bowing before it, he sketched a triple sign touching his forehead, heart, and lips. Sherlock ghosted along behind him bowing when John did. 

John flashed his love a smile as he moved past him to drop a coin into a nearby donation box, and gather four small white tapers from a basket. He returned to the metal shelves holding the lit candles, and set his own ablaze one at a time from a large center candle. One for his Mum, "Emma Catherine Allegood Watson," he murmured under his breath. Another went for his ex-fiance, "Annalisa Cooper," one for David Murray, that sweet boy who left too soon, and then after a moment, he lit the last for his Da. "Hamish Donald Watson. Gods Rest their Souls." John bowed his head.

Sherlock had moved to light two candles of his own, but he also dithered with lighting the third in his hand. “I find it easy to light one for my grandmother, and my neice, Kaitin,” Sherlock confessed, “but my father I and never got along in life. Somehow a display of filial affection after death seems disingenuous. He would see right through false praise.” He shook his head with a sigh.

John smiled softly. “I’ve heard it said that we can honour the whole person we knew in life, warts and all, but still hope that whatever twisted their souls is washed clean in the Summerland. It’s often easier to have a good relationship with your relatives after they die.” He placed a comforting hand to Sherlock’s back.

“I wouldn’t have been allowed to marry you, John, if my father, King Edward, had still been on the throne.” Sherlock studied the candle in his hand. “He wouldn’t have approved of you.” He said, lifting his pale blue eyes to meet John’s.

“Well, he'd need to get in line behind my father. I doubt he would've been thrilled to see me wed a man, but I think he'd have gotten on board with the ‘marrying into wealth and power’ thing. Hamish Watson was nothing if not an opportunistic old bastard.” John laughed a wry chuckle. 

“Still, you light a candle for him every year.” Sherlock observed.

“I do.” John said. “It’s what one does at Hallowtide – remember the ancestors that gave us bone and blood that we might live. Plus it eases the burden somewhat of having suffered my father’s rotten, drunken presence for the twenty-one years of my life before he passed.”

“Is this what you learned studying for the priesthood?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow.

“It is.” John chuckled, and reached up to squeeze the back of his husband’s neck. “Light a candle for your father, Sherlock. It’s for you as much as it is for him. There are times to let things go.”

Sherlock nodded, and moved to light his last taper, setting it next to the many others already burning. Stepping back, he slipped his hand into John’s, letting their fingers interlace. “John you are the light in my life. I’m not sure the man I would be if you weren’t beside me.” 

“Ah, love. I feel the same.” John squeezed his hand.

“I can’t imagine how I’m going to be a decent father with the role models I’ve had.” Sherlock sighed.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes Carrington.” John reached over to place a finger under Sherlock’s chin tipping his gaze his way. “You are one of the best men I have ever known. You will be an excellent father. Never doubt it.” 

“Ah love, thank you.” Sherlock blushed across his gorgeous cheeks, his eyes morphing to green emeralds in the warm candlelight. “I will be a good father with you there to help me.” He lifted their joined hands to press a warm kiss to the back of John’s. If anyone could ever accuse his husband of being unfeeling, they were simply blind John decided.

The sound of chanting turned John’s head to the door behind them. “They’re starting the service, come on let’s go.” He urged. 

“Lead on, my warrior priest.” Sherlock smiled, and allowed John to tug him toward the main room of the temple. 

 

~ o ~

John and Sherlock stood in line to shake the hand of the temple’s head priest. It had been a lovely Samhain ritual. Noviate priests and priestesses had collected the names of the congregation’s passed loved ones on slips of paper, and read them before the altar, in the droning chant of the remembered dead. Afterwards, a gong had been rung three times, and a prayer said to the unknown dead, and the many ancestors of old. John had particularly enjoyed the priestess dressed all in black who had channeled Heketi and given pronouncements for the coming year. It sounded as if things would go well with the local farmers, and spirits were high as people filed back out of the ritual room. 

John had been ready to bolt for the beckoning sunshine that filtered in through the building’s tall windows, but Sherlock surprised him when he said he wanted to speak with the clergy before leaving. 

The head priest, Brother Ambrose he had called himself, was a fit man of middle years, with kindly brown eyes, and a few grey threads running through an otherwise dark head of hair. His teeth flashed white in a tanned face as he talked with his flock, focusing on each person in turn as if they were the only soul in the room. His warm, competent manner more than his looks reminded John strongly of Brother Gregson back at Temple of the Small Gods, and with a pain, he realized it had been some months since he’d managed a visit. 

The man’s eyes twinkled at them when they finally reached his side. “Well, Good Day, my fine sirs. I’m not sure we’ve met before. I’m Brother Ambrose.” He extended a broad hand.

“Lord Holmes, and my husband, Healer Watson-Holmes.” Sherlock replied taking it. “This is indeed our first time visiting your temple”

“Well, I’m glad you could join us today. I hope you enjoyed the service. It’s not quite what city folk are used to, but we do our best.” 

“It was a splendid service, quite splendid.” Sherlock smiled widely as he pumped the man’s hand up and down. 

“We enjoyed the ritual very much, thank you.” John said when he shook the man’s hand in turn with a bit more restraint.

“What brings such two fine gentleman to our humble neck of the woods?” The priest smiled.

“We are guests of the Basketvilles, here for a house party.” Sherlock beamed as if this were the best news possible to share.

“Ah, I should have guessed. Well, I hope you’re enjoying your visit." Brother Ambrose said. "The countryside is lovely in all the Mother’s Autumn colours this time of year.” 

“It is indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m curious the Basketvilles are not regular attendees at services are they?”

“Ah, some of my flock do tend to wander off. Lord Basketville is a busy man, but we do enjoy the company of Lady Basketville from time to time.” The priest looked a bit distracted, and Sherlock swooped in with more questions even as John wiggled his eyebrows in frantic warning.

“I see, that would be the second Lady Basketville of course, Lily.” Sherlock tapped an elegant finger against his chin. “I had heard that the first Lady Basketville, was much more keen on attending services. One might say she was even . . . obsessive in her attendance. Lady Eleanor was her name, wasn’t it?”

“Ah yes, Eleanor, erm, Lady Basketville, she was a very generous patroness of the temple. We all appreciated her devotion. She has been missed, Gods Rest Her Soul.” Brother Ambrose had gone slightly waxy as he sketched a quick triple sign over himself.

“She was a Shackleford before her marriage was she not?” Sherlock pressed. “I went to school with her brother, Ethan. He spoke of her occasionally, but Eleanor wasn’t close with her family was she?”

“Why, no. I don’t believe she was. As you know they lived some distance away from this area. I don’t believe she saw them much after her marriage.” Brother Ambrose had started to redden across his cheekbones. 

“Such a pity. The family was so upset when she passed. I believe they held Lord Basketville somewhat at fault.” Sherlock tilted his head charmingly to regard the priest more fully. “They seemed to think she had suffered ill treatment at his hands. Would you know anything about that, Brother?”

“It was a great tragedy, but no one’s fault.” Brother Ambrose flushed hotly at that. “Sadly, it was a fever that took the lady, and naught but the will of the Gods. She was a good woman, and she left us too soon.” The man tugged at the neckline of his robes as if he were suffering from the effects of a fever himself. “I dare say Lord Basketville wasn’t any worse than any other noble husband picked out of a pile-up.”

“Oh, do you disapprove of arranged marriages then, Brother Ambrose? Some say it should go the way of the bound foot as a discontinued custom.” Sherlock widened his eyes fetchingly. 

“I’m sure it’s not for me to approve or disapprove. It was a pleasure to meet you gentlemen and I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Davonshire.” The man bowed deeply. “If you’ll excuse me, please, I have some things to attend to.” 

“Of course, Brother, the pleasure was all ours.” Sherlock nodded politely as the man backed away, and turned to all but flee into the deeper recesses of the building. The people queued behind them made an angry noise until a junior priest slid neatly into take over greeting those who waited. John dragged Sherlock to a quiet corner. 

“Just what was that all about?” John hissed. “Why were you harassing an innocent man?”

“He is hardly an innocent.” Sherlock countered arching an eyebrow. "He was sleeping with the first Lady Basketville.” 

“What?” John sputtered. “How did you get that?”

“A number of clues.” Sherlock waved a careless hand. “Strong emotion when speaking of the woman tempered by the positive things he had to say. Good Gods, the man positively gushed. When he touched the pendant he wore under his robes though, I knew it for certain. It was a cameo of a woman, and I’m almost certain it was of Eleanor Basketville, née Shackleford. It was a true _affaire de coeur,_ I fear, and not some mere fling between them.”

“You Peeping Tom. Staring down the man’s neckline, were you?”

“It was for research only, John.” Sherlock assured him.

“Well.” John blew out a breath. “Fancy that. The poor sod.”

“You’re disappointed aren’t you? You liked the man. Not all priests have your level of moral fibre, you know.”

“No. It isn’t my place to judge.” John said. “I don’t know the circumstances, but of course putting on the priests’ robes doesn’t keep one from having human feelings. I’m certainly not a poster boy for upstanding behaviour in a priest.” He chuckled wryly at himself.

“I remember.” Sherlock almost leered at him. 

“You wicked thing.” John swatted at his flank. “I think I had some help in my fall from grace as it were.”

“John, the world is a better place with you in it, and not tucked away in some musty temple.” Sherlock pulled John into an embrace.

“Thank you, love.” John relaxed and slid his arms around Sherlock’s middle. “So what does all this have to do with the current Basketvilles, and their little vermin problem?” He asked when he glanced up.

“Haven’t a clue.” Sherlock told him almost cheerfully as they pulled apart. “It’s good information though, and it may be useful later.” 

A respectful clearing of a throat had John turning around to find one of the Basketville’s drivers standing nearby with his hat in his hands. 

“Begging your pardon, Your Highnesses, but her Ladyship has booked a room for luncheon at the White Swan inn. If you’re quite ready, I’ll be happy to drive you there.”

“Why certainly, my good man.” Sherlock swept an arm out for John to take. “I’m simply famished. Let’s go see if they have any of that world-famous clotted cream available.”

 

~ o ~

Luncheon turned out to not only included some sinfully-good clotted cream with scones, but also a plethora of fine cheeses and sliced meats. John was happy to see Sherlock eating a full meal for once. Thankfully, his husband had secured them places at the side of the room farthest away from the main table where M. Croque accompanied again by Miss Morstan was regaling Lady Basketville and her friends with charming anecdotes. John had been left in relative peace while enjoying his roast beef, stilton, and sliced apples. He felt pleasantly stuffed as they made their way back to the coaches to return to the manor. 

The carriages released them at the side of the house after a not-too unpleasant ride back. Sherlock touched John's arm, and they lingered to watch the servants putting the finishing touches on the new altars on the covered veranda. One of the tables was open for the guests to add their own gifts of food or drink to their personal dead, and the other was meant for the unknown dead, set with a faceless statue and several large platters for any offerings made. The maids, it looked to be Poppy and Rhiannon, were lighting candles in tall hurricane lamps, and putting out bright yellow chrysanthemums in jars. Someone had already strung a line of baubles holding mage fire under the eaves of the overhanging roof, and John was sure it would glow nicely after dark. It was a pretty scene, and a traditional set up. While any traveling spirits passing by might not do more than smell the offered food, the remains wouldn’t go to waste. Usually the altar food was given away after the holiday to beggars or animals to eat in the beloved dead’s honour. It was a good enough system.

“So much fuss and bother to distract ourselves from the fact that we too shall one day die.” Sherlock mused as they stood companionably side by side to look over the decorations.

“You are a cheery one.” John said, bumping his hip against Sherlock’s. “Of course, the Gods of the dark half of the year will take us when they’re good and ready. We only have the time allotted to us, don’t we? Good to make the best use of it. Speaking of that . . .” John rounded on his husband. “We don’t have to babysit that damn parlour again all night, do we?”

“Well, it is the most prudent route to take.” Sherlock thinned his lips into a tight line.

“Oh sod prudent. Come off it. The masked ball is tonight and I know you had Goodson pack us fancy dress for it. Come dance with me, love. Leave the altar to the servants tonight. They’ll do fine as guards.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Please. ” John pushed. 

“Oh, all right, for you, my love, anything.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m sure even the stupidest footman will wake up if someone activates the noise charm I left on the altar.”

“Good, it’s settled. I want to dance with my husband while we wear something outrageously posh tonight.” 

“I think that can be arranged.” Sherlock smiled softly at him. “And I look forward to unwrapping you from said posh clothes afterwards.” 

“You have a deal, my good sir.” John grinned.

 

~ o ~

 

John couldn't help whistling once Goodson pronounced Sherlock ready, and John was allowed to turn his chair and view the valet's handiwork. His husband was nowhere to be found in their bedroom, but instead a Dark Faery Prince had slunk from the deepest shadows of the night to take his place. Dressed in the blackest velvet suit clinging to his lean form, polished ebony boots, and a raven half mask that framed his sensual lips, he was like a piece of midnight cut out and given life to walk about. Only the accent of silver buttons and a jeweled pin in his dark cravat gave any flicker of light to his enchanting person. 

“Oh, love, you are magnificent.” John breathed. It was times like this that John truly wondered at his right to be by the side of such a noble creature.

Sherlock struck a pose designed to show off his form to the best angles, and tilted his head just so to peer at him down the small beak of his mask. “Oh, you think so, little man? Come closer that I might see you better.” He rumbled, crooking a single finger his way. “Come now, don't be shy... step into the light.” 

“Oh, keep that up, love, and we won’t make it to the ball.” John huffed, adjusting the front of his trousers as he stood. Goodson had outfitted him in a suit that also leaned heavily on the black, but with a silver jacket trimmed in jet over a black sparkling waistcoat. The half-mask that dangled at his fingers was that of a silver wolf. 

“I think wolves eat birds don’t they, Sir Raven?” John leered slipping the mask over his face as he prowled closer.

Sherlock responded with nothing but a quick intake of breath, and his eyes deepened from a mid-blue to a shimmering aquamarine in a heartbeat. John was mere seconds away from throwing his love down on the bed, and stripping him bare when Goodson stepped between them with his hands raised. 

“Nay, good sirs, nay. I just spent the better part of two hours getting you into these suits. You promised you’d at least make it to the ball before you removed them.”

Sherlock’s shoulders heaved with a laugh as he dropped his dramatic stance, and held a hand out to John. “Indeed, our valiant manservant speaks the truth. We promised. Shall we go downstairs Lord Wolf and see what mischief we can get up to at the ball?”

“Yes, Sir Raven, I think we shall.” John smiled as he took his hand. They had no sooner stepped out into the hall though before Sherlock was swearing “Oh hang it!” and remembering something he needed to tell Goodson before they left. He dashed back somewhat inelegantly, leaving John to wait in the corridor for a moment. John bit back a laugh as he thought on what a sweet combination his husband was of ethereal being and awkward child. He wouldn’t trade the man for all the tea in Chine he thought fondly. 

A door opened across the hall, and a man in a charcoal grey suit and a white owl mask stepped out to join him. Certainly it was Monsieur Antoine Croque in his fancy dress for the Samhain ball, but John affected not to know him. 

“Good evening, Mr. Owl.” He bowed deeply. “How are you this fine evening?” 

“Quite well, my friend, Wolf.” The man bowed in return. “Are you headed downstairs?” 

“I do plan to shortly, but I am waiting on my esteemed husband at the moment.”

“Ah, then I hope to see you both there later.”

“Indeed, sir. Fly well.” John smiled as the man nodded, and continued on his way. 

Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon making sure his plans for the altar in the Basketvilles’ parlour were airtight, and if the ghost were to make an appearance, it would surely be caught. John found himself quite looking forward to showing off his gorgeous Raven Prince if the man would but finish up his many machinations, and come ON for the night’s fun.

Finally the door opened, and the dark birdman slipped out to join him. “Shall we?” The creature asked, tipping his head to the side much like a real raven, as he extended a bent elbow like a generous wing.

“We shall, sir.” John agreed taking his arm to continue down the corridor together. 

John caught a fleeting glimpse of themselves in a mirror by the stairs, and it startled him. The unexpected starkness of the beast staring back at him sent a shiver down his spine. It fueled the excitement that had been simmering in his veins all evening. It was something he hadn’t felt since he was child at All Hallow’s Eve, this feeling that the boundaries of the world had grown fluid, and simply anything might happen this night. Even the gloom of the manor seemed transformed to something portentous and mysterious, and not simply the result of not enough wall sconces lit. No, the shadows had become messages from the otherworld itself sent to warn passersby to watch their backs for odd happenings that were afoot this strange night.

The luminous feeling grew as they reached the ground floor, and found other mystical beings to share their journey. Faeries, and goblins, and a collection of untamed beasts whispered and giggled their way down the hall to the ballroom. Reaching the room with its doors flung wide was like plunging into a mad sea made of flashing gems and claws, swirling feathers and impossible tails all glittering in the scant light. 

The room itself was cloaked much as the guests in dark and glittering finery. Black netting that looked like giant webs hung along the walls, dotted with glowing crystal spiders that prowled its strands. Sparkling stars hanging from the ceiling caught the light from the many lanterns of coloured glass perched at intervals around the room throwing weird splashes of light across the fantastic scene. An eerie tune emanating from the corner led John’s eyes to a small platform where a quartet dressed all in white with black half-masks, warmed up their various instruments for the evening’s play.

John blinked at how strange it all was. Sherlock remained a warm presence beside him, and he pressed closer as a feeling of vertigo swept over him for a moment. A masked servant dressed head to toe in black stopped to offer them drinks from his tray. The crystal cups held what looked like nothing so much as offerings of fresh blood. John took one anyway after passing a cup to Sherlock.

“To your health, Lord Wolf.” The raven smiled, and they clinked glasses before taking a sip. A mouthful of the drink revealed the concoction to be a sweet red wine and juice mix.

John tried to decipher what person might lurk behind each fantastical creature that passed. He was fairly certain the snowy egret in a silver dress that fluttered by was Lady Basketville, and Lord Basketville, the burly bear at her side, but that was only because the two were busy playing host, and making rounds to greet guests about the room. 

John was positive that Sherlock knew who everyone was at a mere glance. His theory was certainly proved when a tall man in a golden lion mask that covered his entire head stopped to bow before them. 

“Victor, you’re meant to be wearing black, white or silver, not GOLD.” Sherlock greeted their new friend petulantly. “The invitation was very clear.”

“And you aren’t meant to reveal anyone’s identity until the unveiling at midnight.” The Lion retorted. “I already had the mask.” He shrugged. “It seemed a shame to waste it.” 

“Well, you look quite splendid in it, sir.” John offered. The man really did have the height and bearing to bring off the noble beast. John had spied another shorter, rounder chap in a white lion mask earlier, and thought it an ill-matched choice. Victor was magnificent.

“I thank you, my good Wolf.” The Lion said nodding his way, and John could fancy the teeth on the mask rippled as the light caught it when he straightened. “I must say, you, yourself are looking quite formidable tonight, good sir."

“Grrrrrrr.” John growled at him, and was rewarded with a laugh from somewhere behind that fearsome lion snarl.

“I must say, you two fellows have the better time of it.” Victor said. “I won’t be able to eat or drink a thing in this contraption all night. Plus it’s bloody hot.” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck beneath his mane.

“I dunno.” John said, working a finger under where the wolf face sat along his cheek. “Even a half-mask itches before too long.” 

“Oh stop that.” Sherlock sighed. “I can’t take you two anywhere, can I? One must bear the minor inconveniences if one wishes to look good.”

“No one can hold a candle to how gorgeous you look, dear Raven.” The lion purred, and like his namesake, the Bird Prince preened. 

“I agree. You are simply stunning, love.” John smiled.

“Oh enough of this.” Sherlock blushed waving them off. “Victor go bother someone else for awhile. I promised John dancing this evening.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Victor bowed elegantly aside as Sherlock towed John through the crowd toward the dance floor. 

“Did you have to be so hard on him, love?” John asked as they left their glasses with another servant, and moved to take their places with the fantastical beasts already in line.

“Oh John. Victor doesn’t do subtle. You have to be direct with him.” The Raven sighed. 

When the music started, John focused on following the complicated steps of the social dance. Sherlock had taught him well though, and soon he was simply enjoying himself swinging past laughing monsters, and darting in and out of the zoo of smiling animals. Each time he met back up to clasp hands with his own Raven, a frisson of excitement raced over his skin. 

They had danced several rounds, and drunk another cup of the blood punch when an elegant female emu and her softly furred cat friend came to break them up. “Well, there my beautiful beasts,” the emu said, “you cannot dance with the same partner all night. It’s just not the done thing. Give others the chance to share your company as well, good sirs.” 

Feeling loose on the wine, they had laughed and agreed. John had been swept away with the cat while the emu waltzed off with Sherlock.

“Ooh, you dance so well, Mr. Wolf.” The cat squealed as John swirled them past another couple to avoid a collision.

“Thank you Mistress Cat.” John smiled. “It helps to have such a skilled partner.”

After that, John agreed to dance with a small silver dragon, a snow queen, and was partnered with a giggly rabbit complete with a fluffy tail behind her when he glanced over and spied his particular raven wrapped up with a certain golden lion. Gods, his husband flowed like water when he got properly moving. He and Victor Trevor were a picture in tall elegance as they slid over the dance floor together. John sighed just watching them. When he nearly trod on the foot of his current dance partner, he snapped his attention back to her, and apologized. “Sorry, Miss Rabbit, it seems I’m all left feet tonight.”

“Oh, no sir, you’ve been divine.” She simpered.

“That’s too . . .” 

John’s head whipped toward the sudden crash and scream that echoed from the corridor. _Oh, no. Not again._

His lovely raven was already headed toward the door with the golden lion hot on his heels. “Please excuse me.” John bowed to his rabbit, and hurried after them.

It was a minor-sounding crash, and few of the guests paid it any mind. Only the white egret followed John after the others down the corridor to whatever new damage had been wrought.

It was Grace, one of the kitchen maids. She had obviously dropped a platter of nibbles as a tray and bacon-wrapped things lay scattered across the floor. She stood shivering, hands pressed to her face as Prince Raven loomed over her bombarding the girl with rapid questions. 

“What happened here?” He barked. When she continued to stare at him, mouth agape, he whipped off his face mask. “Quick, what frightened you, woman?”

“I saw it, the ghost!” She said finally finding her tongue. “Horrible little white thing, all twisted up.” Her face and body scrunched in sympathy.

“Which way did it go?” Sherlock demanded. 

“That way.” She said, unwinding to point down the hallway to a set of corridors that branched out in opposite directions. 

“John.” Sherlock called over his shoulder. “Quickly, we might catch it. You go that way, I’ll take this hall.”

“Right-o.” John pulled his own mask free, and slung it over his wrist as he pounded down the right hallway while Sherlock took the left. 

John pulled on doors, but most of the rooms down the corridor were locked. He stuck his head into a small parlour, but it was quiet and dark. The conservatory lay at the end of the hallway, but several guests were already there lounging about, and the dog and the faery by the door shook their heads when he’d asked if they’d seen anything strange afoot. 

John blew out a breath. Their chances of catching the ghost were slim to none once the sneak thief had time enough to reach one of to the secret tunnels running through the house. Still, he supposed they had to try. He doubled back to see if Sherlock had had any better luck in his search. 

The other corridor likewise contained a number of doors locked to his attempts to enter until he reached one partially cracked. Some movement inside caught his eye, and he gave the door a small push to open it all the way. A few flickering candles inside revealed what was obviously a library lined with rows of books, and two men trying to crawl down each other’s throats as they snogged heatedly against one of the book shelves. A second glance confirmed it was none other than Sherlock and Lord Victor Trevor crushed against the wall.

 

~ o ~

 

John found himself back at the ballroom drawn by the noise of the party. It washed over him like so many waves on the shoreline, and he paid it scant attention as he made a line for the first servant with a tray of drinks. John drank with a purpose. He watched the glittering figures twirling under the hanging stars, mouths open in laughter that he didn’t hear. The masks, the movement, the music – it all ran together until he felt as though he were watching a painting instead of a scene from real life. The liquor burned a path down his throat, and he welcomed it. A woman appeared at his side then. With her silvery wig and black spider mask she looked like any of the women at the party, or no woman at all - a mere sprite come from faeryland to smile and pull him into the dark of the forest. 

“Dance with me, good sir?” She asked, and John could only nod in response. He let her lead him into the moving bodies like any foolish mortal bewitched into a faery mound to join the land of the fair folk, never to return again. They slotted together for a slow dance, moving with the mournful tune as the crowd swayed around them. 

When she whispered “My bed?” her breath sweetly warm against John’s ear it was like hearing the wind rustling the leaves, and he nodded at the sound more than the meaning. Yet he knew the meaning full well, and let himself be pulled along anyway. She took his hand and guided him away from the bustle of the party, into the quiet of the darkened corridors and up the stairs until they reached a door where she paused. She seemed to hesitate then, slightly unsure, but John had followed too far to stop now. He pressed her back against the door, taking her mouth with his in a bruising attack, teeth clicking. She came to life then, sliding her arms around him, pulling him with her as she maneuvered the door open, and they tumbled inside the chamber. 

It was even darker in the room than the barely-lit hallway. Only a sliver of moonlight from the window hinted at the half-seen shapes, and who knew what hidden dangers lurking within. The woman pulled him through, navigating the dark safely to a large shape that turned into a bed when they tumbled over it. The layers of fabric, wig, and masks were a hindrance to touching smooth, warm flesh, and John pulled at it mercilessly, tossing it like so much dross to the floor. She helped him, tugging at his clothes as well until they were finally stripped bare, rolling together in a rush of warm and soft, and . . . oh. It was like a gift, a miracle, to feel this living, breathing form under his fingers instead of some feared will of the wisp that dissolved at first touch. 

John traced up a smooth line of hip, over ribs to reach a lush handful of breast. He squeezed slightly, running his palm over one mound and then another, coaxing the nipples to pebbles before he dipped down and sucked one into his mouth. The gasp above him was encouraging, feeding the sudden fire in his loins, and he pulled the nipple greedily into his mouth. After a time of lips suckling, and breath hitching, he traveled, licking into the valley between the soft globes, moving to attend to the other breast, sucking at one nipple as fingers teased at the other. The form under him undulated, hips rocking against to him. He rewarded the movement by sliding down, kissing his way across that soft belly until his nose reached a thatch of fur, and he buried in, seeking until his lips reached sea-salt, slick flesh. Pining hips down with fingers gripping into yielding flesh, he licked over her, into the cleft and over the sweet button spurred on by the cries that accompanied each pass of his tongue. 

She urged him up then, this fae woman of the night, this form that had become his earth to flip them until she was the dark sky hanging over him instead. She slid her body against his, rubbing over the ache that had pooled between his legs. Her mouth, her fingers, her warm wet core glided over him, touching him everywhere. Teeth and soft lips nipped at his neck while long curls of hair and fingertips swept over his face and chest until he felt as if he were sinking under water into the reeds of a deep lake, and hardly able to catch his breath.

His blood felt sluggish and hot, and he groaned as that wondrous mouth moved down his body making magic as it left sparks that surely must be glowing in the dark if only behind his eyelids. The sparks turned to pinwheels as wet heat engulfed his cock. He moaned like he was being turned inside out which in fact perhaps he was. He could feel his body drawing taught when the pressure and heat abruptly vanished, and he nearly cried at its loss. 

What sweet heaven when warmth returned to settle over his body, and his throbbing cock slid into a tight, hot sheath. He cried aloud then, completely lost in himself, buried in the pleasure. She brought him back to the moment, his bewitching succubus, as she shifted, rocking against him to match his unconsciously thrusting hips. Sweet, so sweet, his hands reached up to grab onto the black shape above him, his fingers pressing into the sharp jut of a hip bone, tethering him as he threatened to fly apart. He did then anyway, shattering into pieces that spun away into the night, and yet he was still here, still gasping for breath, accepting the warm, pliant weight that collapsed into his arms. John buried his face in soft hair and breathed in the musky scent of woman as sleep pulled him into the depths of the dark where no more conscious thought was needed. 

 

~ o ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I've simply been waiting forever to get to some scenes I wrote ages ago. Hope you all enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. Don't worry, there's more to come, and things get better.


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after is a bitch, but much can be discovered in the bright light of day.

~ o ~

_Earlier that day . . ._

Sherlock left the Basketvilles’ small parlour content that as much as possible, the trap was set for their not-so-otherworldy specter. The maids had been ordered to leave the parlour alone, and the pair of footmen who would guard the baited altar overnight had been well briefed.

He _could_ still confront the housekeeper, Sherlock mused idly. Force the story out of her. He was certain he could find leverage somewhere to make Mrs. Garrott talk, spill the beans as it were. Still, that wouldn’t bring the thief to heel. No, a clean catch was the better way to go.

At the moment though, he needed to find Lord Basketville, and ask him some insensitive questions. He had a hunch, and a little more information just might see it through. Sherlock located the man at a card table, smoking a cigar with a half-full glass of scotch at hand. It was a touch gauche bringing out the hard liquor at this hour, but at least it was past noon. 

“Pardon me, sir. When you’re free, there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you.” Sherlock murmured beside him. 

“Eh, what? Oh, Prince William. Certainly sir, certainly.” Basketville must have held a very poor hand judging by how quickly he stubbed out his cigar, and made his excuses to leave the game. In but a moment, he ushered Sherlock into his study, closing the door behind them. 

“What’s the good news, sir?” The man leaned back against his desk as he waved Sherlock to a chair. “Are we any closer to catching the bastard?”

“At the moment, things remain in flux.” Sherlock admitted with a touch of chagrin. He had hoped the thief would be caught the first night. “I had a few more questions about the general situation that might help with the investigation though.” 

“Fire away.” Basketville said moving to take a padded chair nearby, spreading his knees as he settled.

“Bear with me, sir, but I’d like to know more about your first wife’s miscarriages.” Sherlock leaned in just slightly. "You lost a number of children before they came to term, did you not?”

“I have said as much before, yes. Sadly, Eleanor was not a fruitful woman. Not like my Lily. She gets knocked up if you look at her sideways.” Basketville chuckled.

“Forgive the intrusion, but how many times did your first wife lose a child on the way, and what were the approximate dates of the loss?”

Lord Basketville’s forehead wrinkled greatly as he contemplated the need to do maths on such short notice. “Well, it’s not something one wants to dwell on. She lost a number. Some too early to even remark upon.”

“Let me rephrase the question. Did your late wife ever bring a child fully to term?”

“She did indeed, sir, once. A tragic thing it was.” Basketville raked his fingers through his hair at that. 

“When was this exactly?”

“Erm, let’s see it was five years before Eleanor passed, so about eight years ago. She had two miscarriages after, and well, then the illness that took her away.” 

“Was that child stillborn?” Sherlock asked.

“It would have been better if it had, I think.” Basketville shuddered. “It was a weak little thing, a boy. He mewled piteously like a cat, and died within a few hours. I only held him once before he passed.”

“Was there a temple funeral?” Sherlock asked. 

“No, no. Eleanor was out of her mind at the time. I don’t think she ever quite recovered from it. We had the footmen bury him out back. He was hardly big enough for a whole funeral.” 

“Did it ever occur to you, sir, that perhaps your wife was not suited to bearing children?” Sherlock asked despite himself. 

“It was her duty.” Lord Basketville bristled. “Why else marry if not to get an heir? Her family insisted on a monogamous marriage! It wasn’t as if I could take on a second wife like . . . like some innkeeper.” He sputtered angrily. “I’m not a monster, sir. Eleanor, herself, wanted children. I never forced her into anything if you’re implying I did.” 

Sherlock let the remark about innkeepers pass by. It was common knowledge that members of the royal family had in effect two spouses, himself included. “No, of course not.” slid past his lips without much thought. 

“Was she a social woman, the first Lady Basketville? Did she have a number of close friends who she might often confide in?” Sherlock continued, cocking his head to the side in a friendly manner.

“Well, she had friends of course, but as time went on, she grew more solitary.” Basketville paused to think. “Too many people around seemed to bring on her headaches she said. There was all that time legging off to the damned temple, though. She turned into a regular fanatic. I hadn’t counted on her going fundamentalist on me. We had gongs ringing, and incense burning day and night. It was most annoying.”

“One last question. Did your wife see a healer regularly?” 

Lord Basketville’s face darkened at this. “Well, no. We had a falling out with the local healer. Bit of an idiot that. We took care of the small things ourselves of course, for bigger needs, we’d have to go see someone from another town. I was bloody glad when the local chap retired, and a new healer took over at the village.”

“When was that?” Sherlock asked. 

“Hmmm, about two years ago.” Basketville said. “He’s a young one. Much better, much less fussy in his thinking.” 

_Much more likely to have his will bent to his wealthier clients,_ Sherlock thought to himself. “Thank you, sir, no more questions.” He said aloud.

“Well, hang on, what does all this have to do with anything?”

“Possibly nothing, Lord Basketville.” Sherlock let a smile stretch across his face. “I predict we’ll have this mess sorted very soon though. Good day, sir.” Sherlock nodded briskly, before sweeping out the study’s door.

 

~ o ~

 

Balls were hideous things. Balls, galas, coronations, dinner parties – the whole lot of them. It was always too hot, with too many people with sharp smiles jostling to catch his attention. It was dull, simply dull all the social rituals that had to be enacted at a formal gathering. Sherlock had long found ways to absent himself from such occasions, until of course meeting John. 

Sherlock glanced over at his husband, a silver wolf moving smoothly at his side. If there was anyone who could convince him to willingly submit himself to the indignities of a week-long house party, it would be his John. Sherlock pulled him a bit closer and took a deep breath as they rounded the corner to enter the epicenter of noise and bother, the ballroom. 

The usual symbols of the season decorated the walls, giant spiders, black webbing, stars, _oh yawn._ John grinned at it all though, and Sherlock drank in his enthusiasm. The guests of the manor paraded by them got up in their fancy dress, and Sherlock enjoyed a moment’s entertainment deducing who each was beneath their feathers and silks. _Child's play._ It was with a mix of fondness and annoyance that he greeted Victor Trevor when he joined them in that ludicrous lion mask. Victor was a fool, but an amusing one. Trust him to wear such a monstrosity on his person willingly. He wasn’t surprised to find himself partnered with his old friend once he and John had split to be more sociable for the evening. Victor, unlike some he had been forced to dance with, could at least could keep time with the beat. A woman dressed in a cresent moon mask had trod on his foot no less than three times earlier.

It was almost expected to hear the crash and cry from the hallway that had them dashing out to find the source of the trouble. The kitchen servant who’d seen the ghost pointed the way, and he was off, leaving John to take the other hall, and Lady Basketville to deal with the sniffling girl and the mess across the floor. 

Faster, faster, if they could only catch the ghost this would be done tonight. Sherlock was certain he caught a flash of someone disappearing into an open doorway down the corridor. With a burst of speed he followed, dashing into what was obviously the library. The chamber appeared quite unpeopled, but held the ineffable feeling of having been vacated only quite recently. Quickly he searched the room, peering behind the furniture, and shaking out the draperies in a game of hide and seek that sadly yielded naught. If the ghost had come this way, there were gone now. Frustrated, Sherlock set about tapping at the walls, rooting behind books to test the paneling behind them. He felt certain there must be a secret doorway, a moving panel, a hollow space - something to connect the room to the tunnels in the house. He flashed a glance over his shoulder as someone joined him in the room. 

“Bunny, what in seven hells are you doing?” Victor leaned against the door frame laughing at him. He had lost the ridiculous animal mask, and looked simply elegant in his sleek black suit. “Have you finally lost the rest of your mind?”

“Victor.” Sherlock huffed turning back to face him. “The ghost, or should I say person posing as a ghost came this way, and vanished. They had to have gotten out somehow. There's a hidden exit here somewhere, and I'm trying to find it.” 

“Did you completely rule out the possibility that there are actual ghosts at Basketville Hall?” Victor asked with a shrug. “Stranger things have happened.” 

“That is true.” Sherlock agreed “But spirits who steal trinkets and food? No, only someone corporeal cares for such things.” 

“All right. So a servant is playing a joke or feathering a nest egg.” Victor left the doorway to move further into the room, coming to stand before Sherlock. “What of it? Perhaps some things are meant to remain mysteries. What is the world without some unsolved riddles? Once the baby pulls his rattle apart to find the bell within, it makes music no more.”

“Honestly Victor, this isn’t some Hallowtide pantomime. Real people are being hurt. The Basketvilles asked me to solve this conundrum, and to the best of my abilities I will do so.” Sherlock lifted his chin in challenge.

“You just can’t leave a thing alone once it puzzles you, can you?” Victor smiled fondly. “Though I supposed your great brain has come in handy at times.” 

“I do remember it helping you out of a pickle once.” Sherlock agreed ruefully. 

“Yes, I do owe you for that one. You proved quite nicely that I was in Lady Ebersole’s bedchamber that evening, and nowhere near that group of rats plotting to kill the king. Of course I had some quick talking to do with _Lord_ Ebersole about that night,” Victor chuckled, “but it saved me from the hangman’s noose. I thank you, sir.” 

“I’m glad.” Sherlock said softly. “You are an idiot, Victor, but I couldn't bear to see you too ill used. In truth, you don’t owe me a thing.” 

“No, I suppose I pulled you back from the grips of Thanatos a few times myself, hmmmm?” Victor tilted his head to the side to better consider him. 

“You saved me many times, yes, but only AFTER urging me on to taunt the dark Gods.” Sherlock laughed, but it held a wry note.

“I think we both egged each other into some dark places that were best left alone.” A certain shine was rising in Victor’s eyes beyond just the reflection of the mage flame burning in the wall sconces above them. “Perhaps those hard and fast days are best left behind us after all?” 

Victor moved closer to hook a finger under Sherlock’s chin, pressing up firmly to bring their gazes even. Sherlock couldn’t have moved if his life depended on it, pinned in place by that one finger and a look gone blazing. “You were always the bright thing in all that darkness, Bunny.” Victor admitted.

“I asked you to stop calling me that.” Sherlock choked out. Just the pressure of Victor’s index finger was enough to cloud his thinking, and send a spike of heat straight to his cock. _Damn you, Victor._ “I am that man you knew no more.” He managed to croak.

“I know what kind of man you are, Sherlock.” Victor drawled out his middle name, his voice caressing each sound of it. “I know you as well as you know me.” Sherlock watched as all artifice dropping away then to leave the man’s face completely open. “I miss you, Bunny.” Victor whispered softly.

It was his surprising honesty that caught Sherlock off guard, and left him utterly unprepared when Victor surged in and caught his mouth in a fiery kiss. Hands dug in to clench at finery as lips sealed together, and tongues met in a blazing onslaught. Victor somehow managed to push enough layers aside to plunge his hand down Sherlock’s trousers and grip ahold of his arse. 

Sherlock moaned, and Victor pressed in even more fiercely. It went on forever or no time at all as the years seemed to melt away, leaving the two of them locked together, inseparable as they had once been.

Sherlock wasn’t even thinking by the time Victor had flipped him around to press his chest against a wall. He was held in place by one arm twisted behind him as fingers ripped his neck cloth away, and worked buttons open. A hand dug deeply into his curls, pulling his head sharply back. “You’re my bad little boy aren’t you? I need to punish you, hmmm? Put you over my knee, and strip the hide right off of you.” A wicked mouth purred at his ear then moved to gnaw along the length of his exposed neck.

Sherlock was drowning in a sea of need sparkling like stars in his blood. It flowed over him, through him, dissolving him in its onslaught. Something thrummed against the dark pleasure like a boulder stopping a river's course though, something that wouldn’t let him surrender fully. John, of course his lovely John. This wasn’t something they’d discussed. John didn’t trust Victor, and there were no agreements here. Sherlock struggled up from his nearly-drugged state. 

“Victor, no, stop.” He panted.

“Shhh, I’ve got you, little one. You can’t get away.” Victor gloated, pressing closer to sink his teeth into the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. 

The pain brought focus with its sharp pleasure, enough that Sherlock was able to swim free of his stupor. I could break his knee, he thought idly with one well-placed kick. Crush his windpipe with my elbow, but Victor, even the arse that he was, didn’t quite deserve that. They may have once been joined at the hip, something less like brothers, or even lovers, and more like two sides of the same spinning coin, but that tie had been broken years ago. It could never be what it was again. He belonged with John now, and Irene too in their own way. Victor had no right to trespass where he hadn’t been asked.

“Get. Off. Me.” Sherlock gritted out. When his captor merely chuckled, and licked over his ear, Sherlock wrenched his head away, and roared “Dammit, Victor, CINNAMON!”

Victor released his grip instantly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use a safeword before.” Victor breathed. “Not in all that time.” His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving, but he held his hands up in surrender as he stepped away.

Sherlock straightened, pulling his disarrayed clothes back into shape. “Victor.” He said, not unkindly. “I am not a free man. You offer is tempting . . . but it isn’t just me anymore.”

“You really are tamed now, aren’t you, my little spitfire?” Victor mused, pushing back hair that had flopped over his forehead.

“You may want to try it yourself.” Sherlock said, stooping to retrieve his crumpled neck cloth from the floor. “Those who step away from the razor’s edge tend to live a lot longer.”

“Well, I suppose we all slump into mediocrity at some point if we stay in this world.” Victor sighed. 

“Oh Victor, walking in the light doesn’t have to be boring.”

“Ah, but being good is so very dull.” Victor's shapely mouth quirked up at one side as he watched Sherlock retucking his shirt. 

“I agree, but one should not simply strive to be good, but to be good _for_ something. Try it, my dear. I should like to know that the world is still big enough to hold such characters as Lord Victor Trevor.” 

“You do me too much justice.” Victor said. 

“No, I don’t think I do.” Sherlock reached up to lay a hand to Victor’s face. He let his thumb rub across his jaw in small caress.

Victor turned to kiss at Sherlock’s palm. “Ah, go get your little healer. I know when the better man has won.” 

“Victor, I wish you your own happiness.” Sherlock said leaning in to lay a single kiss to Victor’s cheek. “I have no doubt that you will storm the gates of middle age the same way that you kicked the hell out of youth.” Victor shook his head and laughed as Sherlock swept out of the library leaving the man to collect himself alone.

 

~ o ~

 

Sherlock found the raven mask where he had tossed it in the hall, and sliding it over his face, made his way back into the chaos of the party. He moved around the perimeter of the room, running his gaze over the crowd as he hunted for a certain silver wolf. When he finally spied John, it was to see a woman in a long black dress covered with silver spiders leading him from the room. The most wicked of smiles curled over her red mouth as she glanced back at her prize, and pulled him through the door.

 

~ o ~

 

John swam back to consciousness and wished he hadn’t. His head jangled like a money jar, and his mouth felt as parched as a desert. He moved his tongue cautiously around, and licked dry lips trying to generate a little moisture. He cracked his eyes opened and panicked for a moment when he couldn’t place the room. _Large, ornate, four-poster bed._ Thoughts crept very slowly into his muddled brain. _Country manor, week-long house party, yes, right_ – things were clicking a bit faster now. The light seeping between the curtains was bright, and he squinted into it trying to place the time of day. Sometime in the morning at least. John made the mistake of struggling up onto his elbows for a more comprehensive look at the room. After the initial vertigo passed, he was able to turn his head, and was rewarded with the sight of a tangle of long, blonde curls fanned out over the pillow next to his. Not his husband then. John blinked several times, but the view remained unchanged. It was that strange woman, Mary Morstan, passed out on the bed, breathing peacefully beside him.

Oh, Fuck.

 _What had he done? What the fuck had he done last night?_ John scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and stifled a groan as whole scenes cascaded into his brain at once. “Steady on, Watson” he thought, and did something next that he hadn’t done in years, and thought never to again. He slid out from under the covers in excrutiatingly small steps hoping against hope to get away before any "morning after" conversations needed to be had. Creeping around the room in a mad, hungover pantomime of caution, he located and pulled on essential clothes as quickly and as quietly as possible. He tiptoed out with shoes, jacket, and a slightly-bent wolf mask in hand, quietly pulling the door closed behind him to a clean escape. It was horrid. 

Once in the relative, though not actual safety of the hallway, John quickly put on his remaining attire, and made his way as succinctly as possible to his assigned bedroom. It was in another wing of the house, and he had to navigate his way through several connecting hallways before locating it. He was relieved not to have encountered anyone beyond a chamber maid on his morning walk of shame. John had averted his eyes and strode briskly past when she curtsied toward him. 

Taking a deep breath, John gripped the doorknob, and with a turn, pushed his door open, a dozen explanations dancing over his tongue at the ready. What he saw inside stopped him cold. A trail of slightly wilted red rose petals led from the doorway to end in a sprinkle across the bed where the covers lay turned invitingly back at the corner. On the nightstand sat a dish of chocolates, a sweaty bottle of champagne in a bowl of water, and the remains of several red candles that had burned down into messy puddles. In short, it was the scene of a seduction – a seduction that no one had attended. John felt as though a shard of ice had just plunged itself into his heart. How long had Sherlock waited for him to return last night before giving up, and finding somewhere else to be? John turned and stopped when his foot crunched on something. He bent and picked up Sherlock’s raven mask from where it lay on the floor, and took a shuddering breath. 

Right. He had bollocksed things up good and proper this time, and it was up to him to fix them. John quickly picked up the petals and dropped them into a pile atop a dresser. He moved the pillows and blankets about to look as though someone had slept in them. It shouldn't bother him so what the servants might think, but it did. With relief, he stripped off yesterday’s clothes, and had a bracing wash with the basin of cold water and flannel in the room. He was embarrassed to note several places where Mary had marked him, and he dressed as quickly as he could to cover it up. Once he had pulled on another of his fancy outfits, oh how he missed the ease of his priest’s or healer’s robes in moments like this, he charged back out the door to search for his missing husband. 

Dark thoughts swirled through John’s mind to accompany the acid rolling up to clog his throat as he paced the public rooms of the manor. Few were up this hour after the late-running festivities of the night before. He stuck his head into the conservatory, the front parlours, the library, even the empty ballroom, looking as worn out and untidy as he felt. Some of the room contained a few revelers sleeping in odd places, but the one thing each room held in common was the complete absence of one tall consulting detective and peer of the realm. 

The hell of the whole thing, John thought as he searched, was that he didn’t even particularly like Mary Morstan. He hadn’t exactly known who he was bedding last night, but it had been for revenge, plain and simple. It was a tosser thing to do. “Idiot, I am a bloody idiot.” John growled to himself as he rounded the corner to the dining room serving as the breakfast area for the house guests. Two maids, Ruby and Elspeth were laying out a fresh table cloth, which they left off to bob a polite curtsy.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. We haven’t any hot food ready yet, but I could fetch you tea and toast if you care to break your fast now?” Ruby offered.

“No, no.” John waved her off. The very idea of food wasn’t a palatable one just yet. The tea sounded marvelous, but John was on a mission, and a penitent one at that. “Maybe later, thank you. Right now I’m looking for Prince William . . . erm, he seems to have risen early. Perhaps you’ve seen him this morning?”

“No, Your Grace, sorry.” The woman somehow managed to balance being professional with being kind, and John wasn’t ready for anyone to be kind to him just now. He mumbled something back, and continued his journey down the corridor. Near a side door, John grabbed one of the cloaks left hanging for any guest who fancied a bit of air, and continued his search out on the grounds. 

John stepped out into a fairyland. Frost limning the grass sparkled in the newly risen sunlight, while the air hung crystalline in its sharpness. Things were sure to warm up by midday, but for now, a hushed newness lay over the world. John reminded himself that he wasn’t here to enjoy the view, and wrapped the cloak tighter around him as he stomped his way into the gardens. Who knew where Sherlock might have wandered off to. John prayed silently that he hadn’t left the estate entirely. 

His eyes slid past the bright reds and purples of bushes, and late-blooming flowers, to land on a dew-gilded spider web shimmering over the path. John ducked under it, unable to destroy the bit of finery, and hurried on. When his eyes landed on the gazebo at the end of the garden, a spark of hope blazing up hot in his chest, and he instantly headed for it. He swung up the single step, and stopped short as he finally spied the back of that longed-for dark figure curled up on a bench inside. Sherlock sat with his knees tucked under his chin, facing away, hardly moving to breathe. A sharp wave of embarrassment swamped over John then, and he swallowed, unsure of his welcome. He was under no illusions that his clever, clever man knew where he’d been last night. Sherlock was so still gazing out at the grounds beyond that John felt as though he had entered a constructed diorama. It seemed as if he too should be stuck in position, frozen in place forever taking his first step into the pavilion, but never moving beyond it – _cue scene of a betrayal._ John shook off the thought as he crossed the round room easily to lay a hand at Sherlock’s shoulder. He was so cold, motionless like a statue and not like a living man at all. A small shiver of fear leapt up John’s spine. He nudged Sherlock lightly, then shook harder to snap him out of his trance. 

“Sherlock.” John pleaded. Like a man diving deeply beneath the waves, Sherlock gradually rose from who knew what twisted corridors in his mind until awareness sat behind the clear pale eyes that regarded him. 

“John.” His lips were nearly blue. 

“Gods, Sherlock, did you stay out here all night?”

“I didn’t mean to.” Sherlock roused himself to stand, and stretched muscles obviously grown stiff from one position kept in the cold. He turned again to view the grounds around them, this time actually seeing them. He ducked his head down then, flicking his gaze only briefly over John as if grown suddenly unaccountably shy. 

They started to speak at the same time. “Sherlock I . . .”

“John, I believe I have made an error in judgement.” Sherlock cut over him. “This trip to the country for rest and recuperation has been anything but. I fear damage has been done beyond reparation.”

John froze, transfixed by something like horror, as Sherlock paused to clear his throat. Had he ruined it all with one stupid night with a faceless woman in the dark? Was this to be the end of them? “I understand if you’ve felt neglected, grown tired with things between us.” Sherlock began again. “If you wanted to take a female lover . . . if you need more, I underst . . ” He was apologizing to John. This was so wrong that John nearly choked. 

“No, no.” John shook his head quickly. “Fuck, Sherlock no. I didn’t mean . . . no, I mean GODS, I wouldn’t have done it like this. We would have talked before. No, I was a moron, an absolute moron. I was drunk, but it’s no excuse, not really.” 

“John, it’s all right if you need a girlfriend.” Sherlock raised eyes gone nearly transparent in the slanting morning light to meet his. “I always knew this day would come.”

“But I don’t!” John nearly wailed in frustration as he stepped forward to bridge that last sliver of space, an almost chasm separating them, “Not like this.” He reached out to clasp Sherlock’s arms. “Great Mother, you’re so cold.” He pulled as much of Sherlock as he could flush against him, bundling him under his cloak.

Sherlock’s stiff arms moved to wind around his back as he leaned in. “John.” He huffed against his ear in a warm breath, the only thing warm about him. With a groan, John turned his head to cover the icy skin of Sherlock’s face with the press of his lips. He kissed over his forehead, his eyelids, the smooth planes of cheeks and stubble of chin, all the while muttering a constant litany, “Forgive me . . . forgive me . . . I am such a fool.” 

“No John, no more fool than I.” Sherlock sealed his lips to John’s, and they drank each other down, hands grasping tightly to press their bodies close as mouths devoured.

“Sherlock, I left you all night, with champagne, and roses, Gods.” John gasped as they parted. “I am so sorry . . . I saw you in the library with Victor, and I was so jealous, I just snapped. The woman, Mary, well, she was . . . right there. I used her to get back at you. I feel sick at myself.” John buried his face against Sherlock.

Sherlock inhaled a sharp breath as he smoothed a hand down John’s back. “I didn’t realize you saw us.” Sherlock said quietly. “John, I apologize. I shouldn’t have let things with Victor get to that point. He grabbed me, but I could have easily stopped him. I did stop it . . . before it went too far.”

John pulled back. “He grabbed you?” His voice had gone dark.

“John, he’s an arse – it was nothing. Surely you don’t think I’ve been pining for Victor Trevor all these years?” Sherlock waved an elegant hand in the air.

“Sherlock, he’s an ex-boyfriend of yours. He was important to you.”

“So was opium once. I’ve left some bad habits behind.”

“You say that like people can just turn feelings on and off, you had sex with him . . .”

“I had sex with a lot of people . . .”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“John you are my heart, my life.”

“And I just fucked some lonely woman to soothe my hurt pride. Way to go, Watson.” John sniffed in a deep breath, pulling his shoulders taut. 

“Mary Morstan has no illusions about things, I’m sure.” Sherlock cupped a hand to John’s face, his thumb caressing his cheekbone as his fingers slid to the back of his head. “She’s one of Mycroft’s, you know. Does some spying, some wet work for him too, when needed. She was here as back-up if anything went wrong with the cheese sandwich. I’m not quite sure how bedding you was part of the plan though. That might have been ad lib on her part. I can’t blame her too much though.” Sherlock paused, his eyes roaming over John’s face. “You are irresistible.”

John groaned as he pressed his hot face to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Oh Gods. I am _such_ an idiot.” 

“John.” Sherlock drawled his name out in that lowest register he had, that warm whisky poured over sex vibration against John’s ear. “Look at me.” 

John pulled back just enough to bring his husband’s face into view.

“John, did you kiss along her jaw? Run your tongue over her neck?” Sherlock echoed his words, dipping his head to mouth down John’s carotid artery. John closed his eyes and shuddered.

“Did you undress her, and run your hands over her round breasts?” He slipped a hand under layers, opening buttons to work clever fingers into John’s shirt, caressing over his hardening nipples. 

“Sher. . . Gods.” John choked out, throwing his head back.

“Did you slide your mouth down her belly, and take her sex with your tongue?” Sherlock had unfastened John’s trousers, and slipped in to take John’s hard cock in hand. He squeezed once, then raised his hand to lick a wet stripe across his palm, returning to slide over John’s quickly growing erection. Running his fingers over the tip to catch the bead of moisture there, he wrapped his fist securely around John’s shaft, and pulled. 

“Did you take off all her frilly things, press your fingers into her soft curves, and take her? Pounding into her as you both cried out, pumping yourself into her wetness?” 

John was nearly incoherent with shame, and want, and filthy need. His cock twitched and throbbed under the steady rhythm of Sherlock’s hand working over him. It was cold being exposed to the morning air, but so warm under Sherlock’s gorgeous musician’s fingers playing over his flesh. 

“Please,” John begged, his whole body vibrating. “Please, I want to feel you too.” 

Sherlock sat back on the bench, and pulled John to straddle his lap. The cloak settled over them providing some cover as Sherlock reached down, and fumbled buttons open to release his own swollen erection. With a grunt, he took both their cocks in hand and lined them up together. This time he lifted a hand for John to lick over his palm before wrapping it around the both of them.

“Did you ride her? Ride your woman until you both exploded?” Sherlock whispered deep and low, moving his hand slowly. “Did you want her, want to come buried deep inside her?”

“NO.” John cried, completely unraveled, tossing his head, as he dug his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders. “No, just you . . . come with you . . .” 

“Then come with me. Only me, no one else.” Sherlock rumbled, increasing the speed of his fist.

“Gods! SHERLOCK!” John nearly screamed his name as the world whited out, and his orgasm crested over him. He spent himself all over his lover’s fingers in gorgeous messy spurts.

Sherlock groaned as he followed right behind him, grinding his teeth at the intensity of his release. John collapsed against Sherlock, leaning his cheek into a cushion of black curls as he struggled to return to himself. Sherlock panted along with him, wrapping his clean hand around the back of John to squeeze him close. After a moment when bird song returned, and the chill of the morning air pricked at bare skin, Sherlock pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped them off as best as he could. He tucked John carefully away first before tending to himself.

“Good. Now you’ll think of me whenever you remember your night with _her_.” Sherlock growled.

“Great Gods, Sherlock.” John drew in a shuddering breath as he climbed back to his feet. “I only went with her after I saw you with Victor. I just, I felt like I couldn’t compete with him. I mean look at me.” 

“I am looking at you,” Sherlock rose to prowl over him. His eyes had gone to something like green emeralds sparkling in the sun, “and you are . . . everything. John, don’t ever compare yourself to Victor Trevor. I wish the man no ill, but he is my past. You are my present, my future. You have to know this, John, I love you.” Sherlock pushed the words out with some force as if willing them to lodge directly into John’s brain.

Something rushed over John like warm honey. “Gods, I love you too.” 

Their arms were around each other again, fingers clutching as lips met, and John tried to absorb Sherlock into his mouth by will alone.

“Love you.” John murmured again when they finally parted to breathe. “Love your eyes.” John said wrapping hands to either side of his love’s face to lay soft kisses over his closed eyelids. “Love your cheeks, your nose, your lips.” He breathed, peppering kisses on each part named. “Love your neck.” He crooned, pushing Sherlock’s clothes aside to lay kisses down to his shoulder. When John uncovered the bite mark hiding there, he froze, shocked. 

“John . . .” Sherlock stilled as well.

“The wanker.” John growled, stepping back. The mark was ugly, red at the incision points, and mottled purple in the tissues around it. “I’ll kill him.” He clenched both fists at his side.

“John.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “It was part of the dark play, and besides the pain of it helped me to focus . . . stop things.” Sherlock made sure to meet his eyes. “Besides, it wasn’t anything new between us.” 

“He attacked you.” John ground out.

“John, it’s complicated.” Sherlock said quietly. “But things between me and Victor, they are over, if there was ever any doubt. I told him as much.”

“Come here. Let me heal you.” John pulled him closer, and settled his hands on his chest and back. A warm glow grew over the contact as John closed his eyes, focusing inward to send energy over the injured flesh. Sherlock’s neck looked pink and smooth when he reopened his eyes and examined his work. 

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock quirked the sweetest smile. 

John couldn’t help dropping a kiss at the corner of it. “Come on, let’s get out of the garden, love.” He scooped up Sherlock’s hand in his. “I want us naked, now, and someone’s getting frostbite if we do that here.”

“Yes, please.” Sherlock’s eyes fairly shone as he squeezed John’s hand, and allowed himself to be tugged back toward the house. 

The path took them through some sculpted bushes to pass by the veranda where the altars to the dead sat, candles still flickering weakly in their hurricane lamps. A man and a woman bent over a table, making prayers, and by the looks of their black evening attire, really quite the worse for wear in the bright light of day, they hadn’t found their beds yet either. 

The man held up a glass, its amber liquid glinting in the sun. It was Victor Trevor, and the woman, beside him, Lady Kitty Riley, her auburn curls slipping messily out of whatever coiffure she’d had it styled in for the ball. They were both three sheets to wind, and laughing merrily as Victor poured a shot for Kitty out of a dark green bottle. 

“To my cousin, Mortimer!” Victor called out. 

“Blessings and Farewell.” Kitty slurred, as they clinked glasses, then tipped their heads back to drain the contents dry.

Victor turned, and finally noticing John and Sherlock coming up behind them, grinned ear to ear. “Ah, look the Prince of Brettona, and his lovely consort.” He spread his arms wide, sloshing liquid from the bottle in his hand over Kitty. She squeaked and pulled it away from him to set it safely on the table behind. “Come join us, we’re up to honouring third cousins.” Victor boomed.

“ Victor . . .” Sherlock started, shaking his head in warning.

“Oh come now, surely you two lovebirds have shagged enough to have a few minutes for the dead.” He leered. “He’s got a sweet bottom though, our Prince William, I’ll give you that.”

Something in John broke like a twig. “You sodding whore.” He growled and grabbed Victor off the porch by his lapels to throw him to the lawn. John swung a punch that would have done some damage if years of self-preservation hadn’t kicked in for Victor, and he ducked neatly out of the way. John stumbled, over balanced, but quickly recovered to launch himself after Victor before he escaped.

“Oh, no you don’t!” John roared as the two of them went down like sacks of flour. Tumbling over the grass, John tried to get on top, but Victor was taller and heavier, and they simply rolled over and over, locked together, neither able to get the upper hand. A few blows landed well enough though, and Victor yelped when John’s elbow connected with his face, following his swift kick to John’s leg. John cursed like a sailor.

“ENOUGH!” Sherlock’s voice rolled out like the voice of Zaros, the Father god himself, and John and Victor both stilled, unable to ignore the snap of command. John wheezed, trying to catch a good breath, and realized the buzz in his ears had been Kitty screaming beside them the whole time. 

“You brute, how dare you . . .” Kitty cried, and tried to throw herself at John before Sherlock restained her, catching her at the elbows. “Enough! You too, Lady Kitty. Put your claws away, creature.”

They were still entangled, John half over Victor as the man panted under him. A small cut bled under one of Victor’s fetching blue eyes, and with some horror, John realized they were both growing hard as they lay pressed against each other on the ground. Victor chuckled, and winked at him, and John found himself shaking with laughter. “You leave a mark on him again, and I’ll kill you.” he choked out when he could breathe again. 

“Fair enough.” Victor shrugged. “Help me up. I’ve got a stone digging into my arse.” 

John rolled back onto his haunches, and offered Victor a hand to pull him upright. 

Sherlock stood back regarding them as if they were lunatics escaped from Bedlam as they regained their feet, and dusted off clothes now covered in grass and dirt. Kitty was still not mollified though. She reared back a hand to slap John across the face before Sherlock caught her arm, and twisted it behind her back. 

“Peace, Kitty! John’s done nothing bad enough to earn your scorn. I see you two made up last night.” His eyes flicked between Victor and Kitty. “Spent the night in the conservatory together? Great Memir, neither of you can hold a candle to my husband. Victor here has plotted to overthrow the king, and is currently smuggling spirits illegally into the country. You, Lady Riley, had the gall to murder your husband in cold blood, and the wits to make it look like an accident.”

Kitty turned pale, and went near limp in Sherlock’s grip. He released her, and stepped closer to John as she rubbed her wrist, her wide eyes darting frantically among them. 

“But, I didn’t . . .” Kitty started, turning to a stunned Victor with a pleading expression. 

“Of course you did. You laced your husband’s prescribed medicine with a poison, and made sure he had it every morning and night until he was quite dead.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes to bore down on her.

“All right, fine, I killed the old fossil.” Kitty’s eyes blazed as she turned to snarl at him. “He was dying anyway, the monster, and taking his sweet time about it. I did him a favour, really. You have no idea, NO idea what it was like with him. How DARE you judge me.”

“Oh, Kitty, it’s up to the Gods to judge your soul not me. And don’t worry.” Sherlock flapped a negligent hand her way. “Your dark deeds are safe enough. I dare say the grey nature of it makes it hardly worth pressing for a conviction. Lord Riley was, after all, already dying. It might make your future swains think twice about sharing your bed though, I’d think.” Sherlock cast his gaze toward a very uncomfortable-looking Victor Trevor. 

Victor opened his mouth as if to say something when a flurry of noise erupted in the house behind them. A maid popped her head out the door to call toward Sherlock. “Oh, Your Grace, come quick. They’ve caught it! They’ve caught the ghost!”

~ o ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's still a few more chapters to go, but things are coming together. Thanks to all who've hung in here with my story. Your kudos and comments mean more to me than you'll know! Grins!!!!


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news, and good news - sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

~ o ~

 

Sherlock was the first to reach the manor. “Where?” He demanded of the maid, Marie. “The first floor parlour . . .” was all she got out before Sherlock pounded past her to the stairs. He heard the sounds of John close behind, limping only slightly from that last kick from Victor’s boot. The scene awaiting them at the family parlour was something straight from a nightmare. The sound charm wailed its terrible alarm as everything in the room seemed pulse in time with it. The furniture and paintings affixed to the walls trembled violently while any smaller objects spun madly about as if a small tornado had invaded the Basketvilles' home. The knot of people gathered at the door cried out, and ducked as a teacup came flying into the hallway to smash against the far wall. Sherlock pushed past the gawpers, making way for John to follow. A large footman on the floor, who was lying half over the small form cloaked in white fabric, cried out as he avoided a candy dish flying by. Sherlock was pleased to note that the man had obviously managed to get the living rope around the small captive’s legs. It was one of the few forces keeping the thief contained as the servant rolled aside to avoid the pot of violets heading straight toward his head.

“John, quick!” Sherlock pointed to the writhing figure. Without a thought, John dropped to his knees, grabbed one of the small creature’s flailing arms, and pushed a sleep command into it. Instantly the whirling objects in the room fell to the ground as everything stilled. Sherlock darted forward to scoop his wailing charm bracelet off the altar table, tapping at the stones in the correct pattern to finally turn the alarm off. The abrupt silence was almost as loud as the noise had been. John gently turned the figure onto its back. It lay twisted in a sheet with eye holes cut in it like some child’s All Hallow’s costume. It was bizarrely comic.

“Sherlock, what the hell?” John asked confused as Sherlock stepped forward to release the living rope. The cord slipped off the figure’s legs to coil back into a circle in his hand.

John pushed the dirty white fabric aside to reveal a child underneath, a small boy in well-patched clothes, a shock of untrimmed chestnut brown hair, and the unfortunate gap of a cleft palate splitting his pale face in two below his stub of a nose. “What in the world?” John quickly checked over his body, examining the malformed foot, visible even through the wool socks he wore. His hand clutched a locket on a chain, his grip remaining even in his sleep. John glanced back at Sherlock with a small nod. The boy was hale despite his outward infirmities.

“Ah.” Was all Sherlock said as the final pieces of the puzzle slotted nicely together.

“Would you mind explain . .” John frowned peering into Sherlock’s face as Mrs. Garrott the housekeeper burst into the room, the Basketvilles right behind her.

Confusion reigned for a moment as Mrs. Garrott’s fell to her knees to scoop the child against her bosom. “What have you done? What have you done to the boy?” She cried, as Lord and Lady Basketville sputtered behind her, a dozen shocked questions tumbling from their lips.

“Calm yourselves!” Sherlock cried across the confusion, directing the few servants out of the room, and shutting the door behind to cut off the growing audience in the hall. Enough of the key players had finally assembled, and the final act could at last proceed.

“Now then, the boy is fine, merely sleeping for the moment.” Sherlock assured the housekeeper who glared daggers at him over the limp child in her arms. “We could probably have Mrs. Garrott tell us the whole of the tale, but she’s sworn not to, deathbed promise and all that. Let me do the honours.” Sherlock nodded politely toward the stunned Lord and Lady Basketville.

“Lord Basketville, I’d like to introduce you to your . . .” Sherlock faltered for a moment on the proper word to use, _stepson, cuckoo’s egg, bastard_ . . . “late wife’s son.” He gestured grandly to the sleeping boy.

“What in the Great Father’s name . . .” Lord Basketville swore, his eyes dropping to take in the form of the malformed child. “He’s my . . .”

“Well, no, sadly he isn’t your son as well.” Sherlock let the sides of mouth tip down as he commiserated slightly with the man. “I would say our tale begins nine years ago, give or take a few months. The first Lady Basketville, was despondent after producing several miscarriages instead of heirs. She turned to her local temple for solace, and found a bit more than a sympathetic shoulder with one Brother Ambrose there. Imagine her equal delight and shame at finally bringing a child to term even though it wasn’t her husband’s. I dare say she wouldn’t have been the first wife to bring another man’s child into the family name. You can have a healer run tests, but I know I’m right.”

“Eleanor, no . . .” a haunted look chased its way over Lord Basketville’s face, as the current Lady Basketville clutched at his arm.

“She most likely wouldn’t have said a word if the child had been healthy." The detective shrugged. "Sadly the child, or should I say children, for it was twins she bore that night- something that you would have known, Lord Basketville, had you allowed your wife to see a healer instead of dismissing them for informing you that your wife wasn’t hardy enough to withstand childbirth - the twins were very ill. Mrs. Garrott served as midwife. She was very close to Lady Eleanor was she not, having served as her nanny some years ago?”

Sherlock glanced at Mrs. Garrott for confirmation, and the ripple of shock across her face was proof enough of his theories.

“One of the infants died within hours of birth, and the other was sickly and deformed and seemed soon to join his brother.” Sherlock picked up speed bringing it all home now as he paced about the room glancing intermittently at the pale faces around him. “Your late wife must have lost her mind somewhat, and decided that the children’s ill health was her punishment from the Gods for her adultery. She decided to keep the second child a secret, hidden away until its inevitable end. Imagine her surprise when the child decided to thrive and grow instead.”

A sniffle interrupted Sherlock’s speech as the housekeeper lifted a face tracked with tears. “It wasn’t her fault, the wee lamb.” Mrs. Garrott said. “She was a good woman, she just . . . she did, she went a bit mad.”

“Yes.” Sherlock paused a bit annoyed at having his flow derailed. “As I was saying, Lady Eleanor, with the help of Mrs. Garrott, developed a rather elaborate set up, using tunnels already built into the manor, a hold-over from some healthy smuggling in these parts, and an unused portion of the attic to raise the child in secret. I dare say she capitalized on tales that there was a ghost in the manor even, using it to her advantage to explain away any cries of an infant overheard in the night. Lady Eleanor maintained her connection with Brother Ambrose, but as part of her penance, remained merely friends and not lovers with him, all the while never breathing a word of his hidden son.”

Sherlock paused to glance at John as he turned back to pace the other way. His face was rapt as he watched Sherlock expound, his mouth slightly parted, _dear, dear John_.  “Of course things went badly awry when she fell ill, and knew herself to be dying of fever. Even then, she wouldn’t share her dark secret. She merely sent money to be held at the temple for Mrs. Garrott to use as needed for her child’s upkeep. Of course hiding an infant was one thing, but as the child grew . . . forgive me Mrs. Garrott, but did Lady Basketville name the boy?”

“Edmund. His name is Edmund.” The housekeeper choked out.

“Ah, as Edmund grew, and discovered his talents as an Earth Mage, he tested the walls of his prison. It would have continued to grow more difficult to keep his presence a secret as he aged. Eight is a typical age for magecraft to make itself known in a child.” Sherlock shrugged.

“He needs to have training.” John cut in. “It’s dangerous for a young mage to not be taught ways of controlling their talents when they first manifest.” He glanced about the chaos of the room as if any of them needed reminding about the danger of wild magic in an untrained mage.

Edmund chose this moment to rouse, moaning as his eyes flickered open. He started as he found himself inside a ring of people, and tried scrambling to his feet to escape.  


“NO, Edmund, no child, it’s over.” Mrs. Garrott said tightening her hold on him. “No more hiding.”

“ Hey there, easy.” John reached out to place a hand to the boy’s leg. “No one is going to hurt you. It’s all right.”

“Nana, . . .” The boy mumbled something unintelligible to the woman, clutching the locket in his hand to his chest.”

“Shh, shh, it’s all right, dear.” She said, rocking him in reply.

“Ooh, how horrible. To think that was living in our HOUSE all this time.” Lady Lily shuddered.

“Yes, indeed.” Lord Basketville shook his head, then gathered himself to step forward, and clasp Sherlock’s hand. “Well, sir, I congratulate you on a mystery well solved. You did it. We can find an institution to take this creature, and have the peace of our home returned to us. We are entirely in your debt for ridding us of this menace.”

Sherlock dropped his hand. “An institution? Sir, the boy isn’t simple. From what I’ve seen he’s exceedingly clever. He needs to be schooled, not put away.”

“He needs the work of healers too.” John added angrily. “It’s criminal that he wasn’t given health care at an earlier age. It’s lucky he’s still growing. It won’t be too hard for a master healer to fix the cleft palate, and even the turn of his foot can be helped, though he’ll have some other damage from walking lopsided all these years. It’s his mind that I’m more worried about, but children are resilient if given a chance.”

“I say, this is all quite tragic, but he’s Eleanor’s bastard, and nothing to do with me and mine. He’s trespassed on our property, and near killed Lily sending her down the stairs. I’ll be damned if I have a dangerous element like this around threatening my wife, and Rosie and Philip.” Lord Henry bristled growing red in the face.

Sherlock could feel his own blood pressure rising. “He may not be of your flesh and blood, sir, but he is the child of your wife’s. You owe him a tie of kinship for her years of service to you if for nothing else.” Sherlock glared at the man and had the pleasure of watching him wilt slightly under his wrath.

“You have already said that you remain in my debt for solving your problem, and I task you with this in return – making sure this young man gets the start in life that he was earlier denied. You should release Mrs. Garrott from her service with a large severance package, and set her up with a small household as Edmund’s guardian if she is amenable.”

“I am, Your Grace. Bless you.” Mrs. Garrott beamed at him through her tears.

“The boy will need the services of healers and tutors until he is ready to face the world at large. I am happy to send suggestions along.” Sherlock flapped a hand in the direction of the Basketvilles. “Surely Brother Ambrose, and your late wife’s family will need to be informed of his existence, and allowed to speak toward the nature of his future as well, but I insist on a transition period.”

“Yes, yes, fine. As long as we don’t have a ghost creeping about anymore, whatever is needed is acceptable.” Lord Basketville harrumphed. “What’s to stop him from running back into the walls if we don’t send him away right now though?” He asked nodding toward the child.

All eyes swiveled to the boy who did indeed look more like a wild animal about to bolt than a human child as he cowered in his nanny’s arms.

Sherlock took a small stone off the top of the altar and knelt down to hold it out to the child. “Edmund. I’ve seen the beautiful stones you’ve made upstairs.” He tilted his head slightly to the side as he let a small smile play across this face. “Can you bring the light out in this one? I’d love to see your work.”

Shyly the boy reached out and took the stone from Sherlock. He held it between both palms, and closed his eyes to concentrate for a moment. When he took his hands apart, the stone now shimmered, transformed into a mage crystal.

Everyone gasped, and Sherlock grinned at the boy. “Excellent job, Edmund. You have the makings of a fine mage. Do you know what Earth Mages can do?”

The boy shook his head shyly at him.

“No? Well, they can do great things. Besides creating crystals that make light as you’ve already taught yourself, they can help build castles, damns, bridges, and put protection charms over them to keep them safe. With the right training, you could be a master mage. Would you like that? To find out what more you can do?”

Edmund’s face parted in a painful-looking gapped smile as he nodded. The Basketvilles turned away at the sight, but Sherlock merely grinned at the boy. “Then I shall be sure to make it so, but you must promise not to run away and hide in the walls again.” He put his palm out toward the boy. “Will you shake on it? My name is Prince William Sherlock Holmes Carrington, and I give you my word that I will help you to the furthest of my power in becoming a master mage if you agree.”

The boy took his hand and solemnly shook it up and down as clearly he had seen others do.

“Edmund, if you should ever want for something, you need only write me a letter and I will help as I am able. In fact I would like it very much if you would write me regularly to tell me how your teaching is going. Can you do that? Send me your letters, and I will send mine back to you?”

The boy looked a bit confused at that, but Sherlock only laughed and put a hand to the boy’s knee. “You’ve never had a letter before, have you? Don’t worry, I’m certain that your nanny can help you with it. How about I start things by sending you a letter as soon as I am in Delphium, and then you can send one in reply?

Edmund wrinkled his nose at this, but nodded anyway.

 

~ o ~

 

It was all just mop-up after that. A small guest bedroom was found for the ghost child now made real away from the bustle of the party, which appeared to be winding down anyway. It seemed that people had either had their fill of the Basketville’s hospitality, or couldn’t wait to get home and spread the tale of the child found in the walls first.

John went looking for Mary Morstan to apologize in some gentlemanly gesture, though Sherlock told him it was hardly worth it. Miss Morstan was the sort who always knew exactly what they were doing, but John insisted. He returned shortly thereafter though with news from the servants that she had already left the estate early that morning.

Sherlock sent a note to Brother Ambrose at the temple, with Lord Basketville’s approval, informing him of his son before it was bandied about town by loose lips. Sherlock was gratified to see that the man arrived promptly to meet Edmund, and speak with Lord Basketville about his future care. All in all, things had sorted themselves out nicely, and Sherlock and John made plans to depart themselves. John had decided he would rather spend that night in their own bed at 221b no matter how late they arrived, and Sherlock agreed. They were gathering their things, and helping Goodson to pack their bags when a sharp rap at the door surprised them. Goodson crossed the room to answer it, only to find a royal courier waiting in the hallway beyond.

“I beg your pardon for the news, Your Highness.” The man said, bobbing his head as he entered the room. “I’m to let you know that Her Royal Highness, the Princess Irene, went into labour this morning. The King wanted you informed as soon as possible.”

“Great Memir.” Sherlock swung toward John. All the breath left his lungs as the boots in his hand dropped to the floor. “John, she isn’t due for another month and a half.”

 

~ o ~

 

John said their farewells, and thanked Lord Basketville for the use of his barouche and fastest horses to speed them to Delphium. It seemed their return to Baker Street would be delayed as they made their way as swiftly as possible to the palace. Goodson assured them he would follow later in their coach with the bags, and wished them Gods’ speed. It was ridiculous to think they could be a deciding factor in the outcome of Irene and the baby at this point, but still, Sherlock couldn’t help wishing they could fly on bird wings instead of eking out progress over the Earth’s surface with each bump of the carriage’s wheels.

John kept assuring him that the baby was fine. Irene was far enough along that a premature birth wasn't a great issue. Certainly with the best healers in the land at her attendance, it would all be well, he would see. But Sherlock wanted to look on them with his own two eyes now, and would not settle. It was irrational to think that by his very presence, he could somehow stave off harm to his wife and child, but there it was. When had the little pollywog inside Irene become a person to him, and not just a pip of an idea? Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint the moment, but it had come with the wiggles felt under his hand, and the time spent talking, his lips pressed against Irene’s belly. If the child didn’t make it in his journey to be in their arms, Sherlock knew he would mourn the loss as keenly as anyone he had known in his life for years, and if something should happen to Irene, well, that would be his own fault, pure and simple.

“Hey.” John tugged at his hand, and Sherlock realized he’d been biting at the skin around his thumbnail, worrying it until it was near bleeding. “Come here.” John pulled him down to lie on his side across the bench, his head in his favourite spot of John’s lap. “It will be all right. I promise.” John said, softly carding his hand through Sherlock’s curls. Despite his best efforts to maintain a vigil, the lack of sleep of the past few days caught up with him, and Sherlock nodded off.

He woke with a confused start as the horses slowed, and clattered noisily to a stop at the doors to the palace. Pushing hair back out of his eyes, he all but leapt from the open carriage door to stumble into the courtyard. Mycroft had of course anticipated their arrival, and had servants at the door to greet them. A maid with a bowl of water to wash their face and hands stood by a footman waiting to guide them. Sherlock made to wave her off, but John stopped him. "Birthing room." was all he said, and Sherlock agreed to wash. As soon as they had cleaned themselves, and dried, the footman bowed, and set off quickly taking them to Irene.

“Is she . . .” Sherlock couldn’t get the words out.

“I’ve heard no bad news, Your Highness.” Was all the footman had to tell them.

It was an eternity to navigate the usual corridors of the palace to the wing with the Healers’ Sanctuary, but at least the footman kept anyone from slowing their progress. When they finally reached the doors to the birthing suite, Sherlock reached for the doorknob and paused. It felt like a momentous passing, a moment of moving from not a father, to . . . something else, and the gravity of it froze him in place.

“John . . .” He turned eyes to his husband, and John stepped in instantly, squeezing his arm as he opened the door. “Come on, love, it’s all right.”

There were people to push by, the smell of antiseptic wash, and then Irene. She was huddled on a bed with Kate next to her, both of them transfixed by the wrapped bundle in Irene’s lap. Sherlock must have made some noise, some squeak from the back of his throat, for the two of them swung their gazes up to meet his. They both looked utterly exhausted, wrecked, but radiant, a hard light shining incandescent through their faces.

“Well, you missed all the fun.” Irene managed to quirk up an eyebrow.

“Irene, I’m so sorry . . .” Sherlock stuttered out. “How . . .”

“I’m fine. The healers have me quite happy, and the baby is perfect. Come and meet your son, husband.”

Sherlock dropped to the edge of the bed. He reached out a finger to push back the edge of the blanket wrapped around the infant, and found the tiniest of faces, red and scrunched like the smallest old man waiting to greet him.

John, who had been talking with the healers, finally moved to join them by the bed. “Irene, sweet. You did it.” He bent down to lay a kiss to Irene’s forehead. “Kate, congratulations. Both of you, you did a grand job. He came a bit early, but he seems to be fine.” John grinned round at them all.

“Thank you, John.” Kate beamed, squeezing an arm tight around her partner. “Yes, we were worried when Irene’s water broke so soon, but it’s all right. She was amazing ! And the wee lump, well, the healers tell us his lungs are fine, and that was the main worry.” She looked back down to gaze enraptured at the baby. John dropped his eyes to follow.

“Oh, there he is.” John breathed as he fell into the web that had them all quite caught in place, grinning like fools at the new arrival.

“Irene, you made a baby.” Sherlock couldn’t help the words that tumbled from his lips. For such a tiny person, the new child seemed to have quite a talent for turning the adults around him into simpering fools.

“That was the general idea.” Irene smiled. “Would you like to hold him?”

Sherlock squeaked again, and turned helpless eyes toward John. John seemed to understand his witless state, and stepped forward to gently lift the infant and ferry him over. “Well, there’s no questioning this one’s parentage. Look at those lips.”

Sherlock stared more closely at the child’s small face as John settled the surprisingly solid weight into his arms. He did indeed have the same curving cupid’s bow lips that greeted him each morning in the mirror. “Ah.” Sherlock breathed and moved the boy closer against him. “Well, my good sir. Welcome to the world. I can’t scold you for coming a bit early and scaring us all. I know you were in a hurry to meet your mother, but you mustn’t worry us like that again.”

The baby opened startlingly bright blue eyes to peer up at him, and everyone around the bed gasped. “Well he knows his daddy.” Irene chuckled. “That’s the first time he’s opened his eyes.”

“I think I’ll be papá.” Sherlock said smiling as he looked up at John. “John can be daddy. Unless you’d like another diminutive?”

John cleared his throat a minute before answering. “No, that’s fine. I like daddy.” He sent Sherlock such a melting look that it felt as if all the worries that had cloaked him like a choking, sticky tar evaporated away in a heartbeat. Sherlock looked around at the group of them, tired, elated, hopeful, and felt that things were going to be different, and they had much to work out, but it would be all right. For this moment in time, this crystalline moment his newborn son was in his arms, and life was brilliant.

 

~ o ~

 

They spent several days at the palace visiting Irene’s rooms as often as possible. Kate was by Irene’s side constantly, and a whole host of servants stood at the ready to help with the new Prince’s slightest need. Between that and the rather large extended family at the palace who wanted to greet the newest member, it wasn’t as if Irene wanted for any company. In fact, Kate was often forced to turn people away if she felt Irene or the baby were getting too weary.

John was glad to see that Kate felt perfectly fine telling Norah, the Queen of Brettona, that Irene needed her rest now, and a visit later would be best. John was even fine leaving himself, and letting Sherlock, and Irene, and Hamish have some quiet time together. John smiled to himself when they had told him they were naming the baby Hamish Robert Marco Edward Holmes Carrington. It was a sweet gesture, and one that he appreciated – the fathers of all four of his parents had been represented. Personally he was planning on calling the boy “Robbie,” but the others were free to do as they liked.

He was smiling to himself, on his way back to his rooms when he chanced to meet Mary Morstan in the palace hallway. It took him a moment to place her, so jarring was it to see her in the new setting. She had her hair pulled back primly, and a smart no-nonsense dark dress on that covered her straight up to her chin. If he hadn’t recognized her face at the last moment, he would have thought her a governess or other upper servant of the palace.

“Erm, Miss Morstan, how are you?” John stopped her progress with a nod.

“Healer Watson-Holmes.” She nodded in return, obviously not as surprised at meeting him.

“I’m glad to see you.” John said licking his lips nervously. “I wanted to apologize for . . . the other night.” There was certainly no need to explain what night he was referring to. They’d only shared the one besides a few smattered conversations. A flicker of dismay passed over her face, and John hastily added “No, I don’t mean to apologize for the _night_ , it was lovely, thank you. I meant leaving like that, not saying good-bye. I felt like a right cad.”

“I understand.” Mary let a small smile grace her lips. “Please don’t worry about it. If anyone should be apologizing it would be me. I knew that you and Prince William were together, and I chose to step in when you were at a, let’s say, moment of weakness. I don’t expect anything else, but I would like to thank you. It was . . . as you say, lovely. I appreciated it, appreciated you.”

John reached down and took one of her hands in both of his and squeezed. He wanted to hug her, but that seemed too much, and not touching her seemed too cold.

Mary allowed the small caress for a moment, and then moved back letting their hands drop. She cleared her throat. “I actually wanted to let you know that while I was in the King’s service, I am no more, and I’ll be leaving Brettona.”

“Mycroft fired you?” John sputtered. “Just for . . .”

“No, nothing like that.” Mary shook her head quickly. “It was a mutual decision. I’ve decided to move on to other opportunities, do something a bit quieter with my life. I just wanted the chance to say good-bye to you before I left. It was a pleasure, sir.” Mary curtsied to him.

“The pleasure was mine, madam.” John bowed deeply to her. “I wish you well in your travels.”

“Thank you, John. You as well.”

John stepped aside as she moved past him. A multitude of feelings cascaded over him as he watched her go. She held her spine completely straight, never glancing back and John kept her in sight until she turned a bend in the corridor. John shook his head. It had been an extremely trying week, and the oddity that was Miss Mary Morstan slid quickly from his mind as he continued on his way.

 

~ o ~

 

Sherlock knocked on Mycroft’s study. His brother, the king, had requested a full report on his time at the Basketvilles’, but had thankfully given him a few days thinking of nothing much beyond baby thoughts before requesting it.

Hamish had already grown noticeably bigger in just a week’s time, but he continued to sleep large amounts, only occasionally cried a soft hiccupy sound, and rarely opened his eyes. The healers, John included, assured Sherlock that his condition stemmed from arriving prematurely, and was not a health concern. The baby simply needed to make up the time he should have spent in the womb. Sherlock had already spent hours with Hamish snugged against his bare chest under a blanket while they rocked in a chair in Irene’s rooms. It was best, John said, for a premature infant to have skin contact time, and between his four parents, other family, and servants in the palace, he’d hardly been out of someone’s arms since birth.

“Come.” Mycroft called out, and Sherlock opened the door to enter his brother's lair. It had been their father’s study years ago – a place that Sherlock still remembered being called into for transgressions listed, and punishment meted out. Even though it was only Mycroft behind the desk now, and Sherlock could see over the top of it even while seated, it still made him feel itchy and cross to be called inside. He immediately threw himself into a padded chair, and sank into a careless slump to combat the desire to stand up straight and be accounted for.

Mycroft put down the papers he was shuffling through to regard him. “Brandy?” He asked warmly, moving to a side table that held several crystal decanters.

“Fine.” Sherlock let any rude quip he might have usually dredged up evaporate unsaid, and merely waved a hand in assent.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in return, but said nothing as he drew out two tumblers and poured them each a healthy portion. He handed Sherlock his glass, then held his own out in toast. “To new beginnings.” Mycroft intoned.

“And old friends.” Sherlock replied with a half smile, tapping his glass against the rim of Mycroft’s.

Mycroft nodded, and the two of them each knocked back a healthy swallow.

“That’s nice.” Sherlock mused looking at the amber liquid in his glass, “but you’re going to love the Gallatian vintage you’ll be getting soon in tribute.”

“Oh do tell?” Mycroft looked the innocent as he raised both eyebrows, but Sherlock knew better.

“You’ve already had a report from Mary Morstan, what do you need me to tell you?”

“I’d like to hear about the week in your own words.” Mycroft retook his seat and leaned back. “A different perspective always helps.”

“Speaking of Miss Morstan, she seduced John. I want her killed.” Sherlock downed the last of his drink, and set the empty glass to the ground beside him.

Mycroft looked as if the tumbler on the floor pained him, but he refrained from commenting on it. “Surely you don’t actually mean that, brother mine.”

“No, fine then. Not killed. Fired, removed, kept far from John.” Sherlock flapped a hand about as if an angry bee buzzed by his head.

Mycroft finished the last of his drink, and set his glass down on the desk with a solid click. “Already done. She is no longer in my employment, and will be leaving the area for the foreseeable future.” A thin smile slid across his face as he templed his fingers beneath his chin. “Now, tell me about the week at the Basketvilles’.”

Sherlock relayed the pertinent information clearly enough, stopping to answer some on-point questions of Mycroft’s. He’d hate to admit it, but sometimes having conversations with someone who could see the steps ahead as well as you could was quite a pleasure.

“So you see, Antoine Croque isn’t a source of any state secrets leaked. The man is too busy with women, and wine for any of that.” Sherlock drawled. “My bets are on the ‘friends’ that Genevieve keeps having to stay.” Sherringford’s Gallatian wife was quite a favourite, and she’d had any number of Gallatian admirers hanging on in court to visit over the past few years. “What’s that latest fellow sniffing at her drawers, Jean-Luc?” If Genevieve were allowed a consort, and Sherringford could unbend enough to sanction it, that pretty young man would be a prime candidate.

“I agree.” Mycroft leaned in to place both elbows on the desktop. “I think it’s time to shut down Genevieve’s salon days. She’s due in springtime anyway, and will be busy enough with the new baby. If we allow her to keep Jean-Luc around with the understanding that he keeps his nose clean, I think the problem will be nicely solved. He’s a brainless one, and she seems to like him.”

“It’s just coming up babies all over here, isn’t it?” Sherlock shook his head in mock reproach.

“It’s a nice change from how quiet the palace used to be though, isn’t it?” Mycroft tilted his head to better regard him.

“I suppose it is.” Sherlock said.

“You’re doing an excellent job with Hamish.” Mycroft smiled, and it was one that actually reached his eyes. “But I’m not surprised. You were always more of a father to Loralee than I ever managed to be while she was growing up.”

“You had your reasons for keeping a distance.” Sherlock said.

“In the end, I’m not sure they were good ones.” Mycroft replied with a sigh. “I’m trying to do better with Fergus and George.”

“You did the best you could with Loralee, and she’s fine. She’s got twice as much sense as the ninnies you have her sharing the school room with.”

“You’re right. I think it might be time to disband that little group. Her mother and I think it best for her to go away to school soon.”

“Is that safe?”

“I’ll make it so. I don’t want her kept under a rock as we were growing up.”

“You’re not the man our father was.” Sherlock said frowning slightly. “Even your worst has been better than his best.”

“I thank you.” Mycroft returned. “Still, that particular accomplishment isn’t hard to do, hmmm?”

“You know I meant more than to damn with faint praise.”

“That I did. I am quite proud of you, William.” Mycroft relaxed back in his chair again. “You’ve gone your own way about it, but you’ve grown into a remarkable man.”

“Oh, what am I meant to do with that.” Sherlock sputtered. “Surely we aren’t meant to be friends now?”

“Perish the thought.” Mycroft raised both eyebrows. “More brandy?”

“Is it wise? We’ve grown mawkish on only one glass.” Sherlock chided.

“Well, I have it on good authority I’ll be receiving new shipments soon. It only makes sense to clear out this lot first.”

“All right, then.” Sherlock hid a smile as he scooped his glass from the floor. “When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

 

~ o ~

 

Sherlock was pleased to find John already in bed in their palace suite when he finished with Mycroft. He stripped his clothes where he stood down to his pants, and crawled under the blankets to curl next to John. He was warm and delicious smelling, and Sherlock couldn’t help burrowing his nose to the back of his neck.

“Whazzit?” John mumbled.

“Nothing, go back to sleep.” Sherlock whispered into the silk of his hair.

“Sh’lock.” John roused himself as he rolled over to face him.

Sherlock hummed as John slipped arms around him. “Miss you.” John said laying sleepy kisses under his jaw.

“Missed you too.” Sherlock hooked a leg around John’s thigh, and pulled him closer, capturing his roaming mouth in a kiss.

“Mmmm, taste like a bar.” John smiled, as he lazily licked into the seam of his mouth.

“You taste like you.” Sherlock said licking back.

Soon they had divested themselves of the scant clothing between them and had pressed skin to skin easily finding the tracks for an unhurried, but well-known lovemaking. Hands here, pressure there, mouth there. It didn’t take long for gasps and release to come. Sometimes the familiar was a good and comforting thing.

Sherlock was flat on his back when John rolled out of bed to fetch a wet flannel from the loo to wipe them both clean. Once they were less sticky, John pulled up the blankets, and tucked them back in together.

“Love, I meant to tell you at dinner. I got a note from the Healers’ Sanctuary. They’re begging me to come back.” John pushed away a fall of curls that had tumbled across Sherlock’s face.

“But I explicitly requested paternity leave for you!” Sherlock could hear the whine in his voice.

“Yeah, I know, and there was the house party the week before. It’s been nuts, yeah? But they’re short-handed, and it’s flu season getting started, and honestly, I hate to leave everyone in the lurch. I need to get back.”

Sherlock could hardly read his expression in the near dark of the room, but there was a sudden tension in his husband’s body that was loud and clear. John was tired of the royals, and the pomp of the palace, and probably even the ongoing domestic crisis of having a newborn around. He wanted his routine back, and Sherlock could hardly blame him. Sherlock had promised himself from the moment he first took John to his bed that he would never throw his weight around, and ask John to give up his life for him. John was his own person, and that was worth more than gold in a life filled with sycophants, and hangers-on at court.

“Yes, of course, John. I understand.”

“Hey, this isn’t permanent is it?” John reared up on an elbow. “You aren’t thinking of moving back into the palace full time? I thought Irene and Kate were going back to their townhouse, and we were back for Baker Street. That’s still the plan, yeah?”

“There’s no way Irene and Kate are staying one minute more at the palace than they need to.” Sherlock chuckled into the dark.

“Right. I thought not.” John said, and yawned wide enough to crack his jaw.

“Come, back to sleep.” Sherlock realized he was keeping John from his rest. He held out his arms, and John settled next to him again. “We’ll sort everything out later.”

“Aawri’.” John muttered into the pillow, and Sherlock kissed the top of his head, listening to John’s breath as it evened out and he slipped back into sleep. It was the sound of home, and he let it lull him until he too drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am completely ignoring distances here to assume that someone could travel by coach from the moors of Devonshire, to the city of London in a day, but since this is an AU, and it's Davonshire to Delphium, we're just gonna roll with a six hour or so trip on excellent roads. Earth mages rock! ;)


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endings and beginnings - two sisters who travel closely together, walk ever onward, clasped hand in hand.

~ o ~

Sherlock could hear the raised voices from halfway down the corridor. He quickened his steps, and opened the door to Irene’s rooms without knocking. He’d become such a fixture with Irene and Kate in recent days, visiting Hamish so often, that it hardly seemed worth the bother to make someone come open the door for him. Plus it sounded as if all was not right in Irene's suite today. He found the sitting room empty save for one young girl pressed against the door listening to the loud row emanating from the bedroom cum nursery beyond. 

“Loralee, it’s bad form to eavesdrop at keyholes.” Sherlock scolded his niece. 

“How else am I meant to learn anything?” She asked, her auburn curls bouncing over her shoulders as she whirled around to face him.

“What’s all the fuss about, then?” Sherlock nodded toward the door.

“Granmaman wants Auntie Irene to stay at the palace with Hamish, and Auntie Irene wants to go home. They made me leave before the conversation got really interesting." Loralee crossed her arms in front of her. " I understand completely though." She shrugged wearily, looking years beyond her wise old age of twelve. "I want to go home too.” 

“Are things so bad at the palace, Poppet?” 

“Better now that Margaret has gone to the country for her nerves,” Loralee said, “but I miss mum.”

“Loralee, I didn’t give you an invisible charm to torment one of your classmates.” Sherlock frowned at her.

“Why give me the charm if you didn’t expect me to use it?” Loralee raised an eyebrow in such a familiar gesture that Sherlock had to laugh. 

“Fine, point given.” He admitted. “I hope you didn’t tell anyone I gave you that necklace.”

“What necklace?” Loralee asked with a straight face. 

“Indeed.” Sherlock said. “You’re spending Yuletide with your mother, aren’t you?”

“I am, but it’s weeks and weeks away.” She sighed. 

Loralee’s mother, Anthea Hollingberry, who happened to be Mycroft’s first love, and quite an accomplished Potions Mage, owned a small estate outside of Delphium. Their rolling gardens and grounds were quite a paradise for a Green Mage such as Loralee. Sherlock was certain that the stone, and iron, and congestion of the city were wearing on her.

“It will come soon enough, sweetling, I promise.”

“I suppose.“ Loralee said, thinking for a moment. “I like Hamish, but he’s awfully small." She offered, completely changing topics. "He’s smaller than all the other babies we’ve had in the nursery.” 

“He is, but that’s just because he came a bit early. Give him a few weeks, and he’ll be as fat as you were as a babe.”

At that moment, the infant in question let out a terrible wail from behind the door, and the arguing voices rose even louder. On one hand, Sherlock was happy to hear that Hamish’s cry had gotten so much stronger, but on the other hand, blood might be drawn if things weren’t stopped soon.

“Go on, Poppet. I think you’d better really leave this time. You can see Hamish later.” Sherlock dropped a hand to her shoulder and gave her a small nudge toward the door.

“All right, Uncle Sherlock.” 

 

~ o ~

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and opened the door to step into Irene’s inner sanctum. As expected, his mother and Irene were glaring at each other from their chairs by the fireplace, abandoned tea cups on a side table while Kate stood nearby trying to jiggle an upset Hamish to little result.

Sherlock walked into the room, gently scooped Hamish out of Kate’s arms, and deposited him in Irene’s lap without a word. Irene’s expression looked fit to skin bears, but she softened slightly as she slipped her dressing gown aside and settled the baby to latch onto her breast. The tension in the air lightened somewhat as the boy’s howls cut off abruptly to the sound of contented sucking.

“You see, right there.” Queen Violet waved a hand in the air. “This is what I’m talking about. This isn’t the done thing. We have wet nurses for this.” 

“What’s wrong with a mother feeding her child?” Sherlock kept his voice deceptively calm as he regarded his mother. She was looking quite elegant today in a ruffled purple gown and matching small cap. Irene by comparison had bags under her eyes, a hastily scraped-back hairdo, and a slightly-soiled dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. She looked however no less formidable for her rumpled state.

“A princess is not just a mother. We of a higher standing have a responsibility to be above what the teeming masses do. We have an image to maintain.” Violet sniffed.

“Nonsense. A princess has every right to bond with her child as she sees fit.” Sherlock sneered. “Is that what all this is about?”

“Your mother disagrees with my decision to return to our townhouse on Goswell Lane next week.” Irene gritted out through clenched teeth, obviously holding on to some shred of equanimity.

“Well, of course I do.” The Queen Mum huffed. “It was bad enough having you live next to thieves and cutthroats in that questionable neighborhood before, but with a prince of the blood, well, it’s just not possible.”

“Not possible? Of course it’s possible.” Sherlock looked down at his mother with a frown. 

“That area is just so dodgy, though.” Violet shuddered delicately. “And those parties of yours. Well, it isn’t a suitable environment for children, is it? I simply must insist.”

“Last time, I checked, you were not the ruling monarch of Brettona, Mother.” Sherlock parried. “You have no say in this.” 

“But the others stay at the palace. The nursery is _fine_ for the other royal children.” The Queen Mum turned wide eyes to them, beseeching. She was floundering and she knew it.

“Mother, you have five grandchildren living at the palace already with another on the way. Surely this little fellow moving across town will be no crisis. My brothers may live in the palace with their broods if they so desire, but I chose differently. Irene is of course also free to make up her mind as to her primary place of residence.” He added quickly, eyes flickering over to his wife’s taut face.

“Still, you can’t make a place for yourself in polite society in a place like that. Surely you see this? Queen Violet leaned in beseechingly.

“It’s Wildcombe Park, not the frozen north.” Irene gritted out, gently detaching Hamish to put him over her shoulder for a pat. “We were fine there before, and we will continue to be so.” 

“Polite society can go . . .” Sherlock got out before a knock at the door turned their heads. 

Kate darted over to open the door revealing Prince Sherringford in the outer chamber. 

“Excuse me for wandering in - the front doors were open.” Sherringford smiled round at everyone seemingly oblivious to the cloying tension still weighing down the room.

“No worries, Your Grace. Things are a bit less formal around here these days.” Kate bowed him in. 

“Good afternoon all. Well, here you are, Mother. Visiting the latest addition to the family?” Sherringford asked somewhat redundantly.

“Yes, of course, I try not to play favourites, you know. All my grandchildren are important to me.” Queen Violet spoke in rounded tones. 

Sherlock and Sherringford rolled their eyes in exactly the same fashion in near perfect unison. Sherlock had to catch himself from bursting out laughing. Thankfully the Queen Mum was focused on Hamish and missed it completely. The times that their mother had visited her own children in the nursery when they were small could be counted on one hand. This sudden display of maternal warmth toward the next generation was a very recent occupation. It was possible that senility had started to set in Sherlock thought idly. 

“Well, the little man has grown.” Sherringford observed brightly. “Seems about double since last time I saw him. Irene, you're doing a grand job with him.” 

Hamish chose that moment to emit a loud and adorable burp over Irene’s shoulder.

“The dear, _dear,_ little thing.” Queen Violet’s eyes crinkled at the edges as she cooed at the baby.

“Thank you, Prince Sherringford.” Irene smiled tiredly toward him over the baby’s downy head. “I think he is doing quite well.”

“But I came to find you specifically, Mother.” 

“Oh, what now?” Violet swung her gaze back to her middle son with some effort. 

“The Duslen delegates are arriving this afternoon, and Mycroft had a small tea planned to greet them.” 

“Yes, what’s that got to do with me, dear?”

“The delegates are bringing their wives, and Mycroft felt a delicate woman’s touch was needed to help smooth over the relations. He hoped that you might attend personally, as a favour.”

“Ah, well, if he wants me so badly, fine. I’ll go freshen up, and make an appearance. Needs must I suppose.” Queen Violet rose in a flutter, dispensing air kisses about the room before allowing Sherringford to herd her toward the door. 

“Good afternoon, my dear people. I’ve no doubt you’ll put it to good use.” Sherringford winked at them as he nudged his mother into the outer chamber. 

Sherlock nodded back as his brother pulled the door closed behind them.

“Ooh, that awful woman.” Kate said dropping into the armchair that Queen Violet had just vacated as they heard the outer door close. “She drives me spare. You don’t see her for months, and then suddenly she’s practically the rug under your feet telling you everything you’re doing is wrong.” 

Irene smiled weakly at her “Kate. . .”

Kate immediately jerked her gaze back to Sherlock. “Oh Gods, I’m sorry. She is your mother.”

Sherlock waved off her concern as he seated himself in the chair beside her. “No apologies are needed. I know how trying she can be. I think you’ve been remarkably tactful all things considered.”

“So, how are you feeling, Madame General, land engagement battles aside?” Sherlock tilted his head to study Irene.

“Oh, exhausted.” Irene sighed, and moved Hamish to latch onto her other breast. “You wouldn’t think that one little baby could be so much work.”

“He does seem to have . . . more gravity than one small person should.” Sherlock agreed. “I’m certain the revolving door of visitors hasn’t helped. Perhaps you would feel better relocating to your townhouse sooner rather than later?”

Irene and Kate exchanged a glance. “We didn’t want to rock the boat.” Kate said with a shrug.

“You know, husband, when your mother talks about polite society, all it would take would be a whisper from her to my father’s ears about Kate and myself, and I would not be welcome to visit my sisters again.” Irene looked down to watch Hamish nurse, and a small smile curled over her face despite herself. “And of course I’ve got this one to worry about now. I find myself thinking about what’s best for him. Perhaps he’s not ready to move yet.”

Sherlock felt a growl building in his throat. “Don’t worry about my mother. I’ll talk with her. And I’m sure the babe is hardy enough to survive a short carriage ride. Let me know when you want to relocate, and I’ll make it so.” 

Irene looked up. Her pale eyes were rimmed in red. “I think I’d like to go home tomorrow morning.” 

“Ah, then let’s get things rolling, shall we?”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Kate leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“It’s the least I can do.” A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he watched the lovely tableau of mother and child nursing in the chair across from him. It was nothing like the calm serenity of paintings he had seen, but ever so much more sweet for being _his_ family - chaos and all. He looked over at Kate, and she had the same silly grin plastered over her face that he was certain graced his own. On a whim he reached over and scooped up Kate’s hand to press a kiss to the back of it. “You are both being excellent mothers. I couldn’t have asked for better parents for the new prince.” 

Kate blushed prettily, but Irene just raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh don’t think you and John are weaseling out of things.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Sherlock smiled . “Now, let’s send a note to your servants, and get your townhouse ready to receive the new prince.”

 

~ o ~

 

The carriage swayed slightly as it hit a bump in the road, and Sherlock glanced over as lamplight from outside spilled across John’s face. It illuminated the lovely hollows and curves for just a moment before they slid back into shadow again. John looked so far away that Sherlock reached over, and touched his shoulder. 

“A copper for your thoughts?”

“Oh, sorry, love.” John shook his head. “Just wool-gathering for a moment. There’s a woman who came into the Sanctuary today. She’s got some sort of tumor growing on the brain that we may or may not be able to shrink. She has three small children. It just, it got me thinking.” 

“I know she’s in excellent hands. If anything can be done for her, you can do it.” 

“None of us have any guarantees in life though, do we?” John shrugged.

“What’s that old saying - 'In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes?'”

John just snorted in reply, but reached over to thread his hand into Sherlock’s. “I love you.” He said, quietly after a moment.

“I love you, too.” Sherlock squeezed his hand in reply.

It had been a busy few weeks. Rather than delving into his backlog of requested cases and finding the grisliest, and oddest things to investigate as usual, Sherlock had asked his secretary, Mr. Brumby, to find him things that would be quick to wrap up. He’d thought, ever so naively it seems before Hamish had been born, that keeping his schedule of weekly visits with an extra “pop in” here or there to Irene and Kate’s would be sufficient for his new position of “papá.” Now it seemed he was arriving at their door every other day, and feeling the absences between keenly. Hamish was finally starting to wake up and interact with his surroundings, and Sherlock found himself loathe to miss anything.

John had jumped back into his busy schedule at the Healers Sanctuary, but had the weekend off, and the two of them had made solid plans to join Irene and Kate for dinner on his first free night. Sherlock was pleased to note it was the blond footman called Randall who answered the door to the townhouse. He bowed them in, and showed them to the parlour with a polite efficiency. Kate stood and greeted them warmly, but Irene merely waved hello from a chair where she sat with her feet up. 

“I’d get up, but I’m knackered.” Irene said. By the darkening of the bags under her eyes, Sherlock could certainly see the proof of her words. 

“Is something wrong with Hamish?” He asked in quick concern.

“No, nothing like that. He’s fine. It’s the neighbors.” Irene yawned from behind a hand. “One of them has had some drunken soiree each night this week, and the house across the way had a fist fight by the front steps just before dawn. Even if Hamish sleeps through it, I can’t. I hate to admit that your mother was right, but I’m starting to think we might want to move to a quieter neighborhood after all.” 

“There’s no harm in that.” Sherlock said. “In fact I’ve been thinking myself . . .” He glanced over at John who had sat himself in an armchair by the fire. He was watching the conversation with a pleasant look on his face. Sherlock cleared his throat, and began again. “John, I know we’ve been happy at Baker Street, but it really is quite small . . . we’ve no place for your sister to stay when they come to visit. I was considering . . . the possibility . . .” 

“Yes?” John asked, his brows drawing together.

“Well, I was thinking perhaps we could find two townhouses very near each other in a more suitable neighborhood, and while not exactly combine our households, relocate them to closer proximity.” 

“Oh.” John’s face had dropped. 

Irene and Kate both liked the idea, and set off instantly in an amiable debate on neighborhoods they might consider. 

Sherlock took the chair next to John’s. “It’s not a done deal . . . just an idea really. We’d have to look around, find something suitable that fits everyone’s needs.” He reached over and placed a hand to John’s knee. “John, we might be able to find something closer to the Sanctuary.” 

“I don’t know, Baker Street.” John shrugged. We met there . . . the temple . . . Mrs. Hudson’s sticky buns.” John’s face had scrunched completely up into a twist.

“We won’t rush into anything. I promise. Just think about it?” 

“Yeah, all right. I’ll think about it, but Sherlock, Baker Street! It’s been perfect.”

“I know, love, but things change.” 

“Yeah, they do.” John agreed with a sigh. 

“Oh John, we aren’t talking about relocating to the moon.” Irene smiled over at them as she and Kate broke off. “Come, I had cook make that steak and kidney pie you like so much. Let’s for the table. I’m famished.”

 

~ o ~

 

Hamish woke upstairs just as pudding was being served, and the nanny, a sturdy ginger woman named Colleen that Irene had hired to help out, carried him down. 

“Oh there’s the wee tyrant now.” Irene cooed, and excused herself to the parlour to nurse him. Once everyone had scraped their plates clean of sponge cake and cream, they moved to join Irene. Kate brought her plate of dessert along. 

“Here you go, sweetie. I’ll take him.” Kate said handing Irene the cake, as she accepted the baby into her arms. “Ooh, you gorgeous little man.” She dropped a kiss to his head with a smile. Hamish waved his arms and gurgled at that, and everyone in the room chuckled. 

John had to admit that while it was hard to find a truly unattractive baby, the new royal prince was quite a handsome lad. He glanced over at his birth parents, and laughed a bit to himself. With such fine royal stock behind him, Robbie was going to be a stunning young man.

“Kate, may I take him for a bit?” Sherlock had such a light in his eyes, it melted John’s heart just to look at him. He was a man utterly besotted. John would have been jealous except for the fact that he was pretty gone on the boy as well. 

“Of course.” Kate smiled, and let Sherlock take the baby from her. 

Sherlock started off on a small walk, rubbing the baby’s back, and speaking a soothing patter as they ambled about. “What do you think, Hamish?” They could hear his voice drifting back in from the hallway. “Do you like the ugly stripes on that wall? I’ve always been partial to flowers myself.”

“He's like an egg, that one, isn't he?” Irene smiled, nodding after Sherlock as she scooped up a bite of cake and cream.

“Oh, how so?” John asked waiting for the punch line.

“He’s hard on the outside, but all soft and squishy inside once you crack the shell.” She mused, narrowing her eyes.

Kate leaned in, and playfully swiped up a bit of Irene’s cream at the side of her plate. 

“Hey, that’s mine.” Irene scolded, and held the plate farther away. “I’m still nursing. I need the sustenance.”

“That’s true.” Kate said licking her finger clean. “Shall I get you another?” 

“Please.” Irene said, and with a last forkful, handed her the clean plate. “Though if I keep this up too much, I’m going to get monstrously huge.” 

“I’ll still love you anyway.” Kate smiled, and with a wink left to find Irene another slice.

“Tell Randall to send up the tea too.” Irene called after her. “John.” She rounded back on him. 

“Hmmm?” He cocked his head.

“How did you like my present?” She leaned in. “Tell me how things went, and spare no details.” 

“Oh Gods.” John smacked a palm against his forehead. “I’m so sorry. Things got so busy. I put your bag under the bed, and completely forgot about it.”

“Well, that is absolutely unacceptable. You will go home, find it, and report back.” Despite her tired demeanor, the old fire flashed in her eyes. “I’m exhausted. Someone needs to be having fun so I can hear about it later . . . and live through it vicariously.” 

“I’m not making any promises.” John laughed. 

“John.” Irene softened as she held his gaze. “The dark play need not be painful. There are games of denial, of advance and retreat. You can play with power and submission without anyone bearing marks afterwards. Not all of the dark play is . . . hard.”

“ All right, I know.” John said. 

“Promise me you’ll keep an open mind at least.” 

“Yes, fine. Of course.” John assured her, wondering what madness he had just agreed to. He would have asked more, but Sherlock and the baby, and a terrible stench had just reentered the room. 

“He’s gone off. Call the nanny.” Sherlock complained with his nose wrinkled up as he passed a stinky Hamish back to his mother. 

“Men, you’re all lightweights.” Irene laughed.

 

~ o ~

Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes Carrington, scion to the rulers of Brettona was well and tightly caught hanging from the ceiling of 221B by the leather harness they had found in Irene’s gift bag. He was completely nude, all gloriously pale expanses of skin bare save for the series of black straps that supported him under the chest, and around the juncture of groin and thigh to hang suspended facing the floor. His wrists were neatly trapped at his sides, while his legs were doubled up, and bound behind him. Only his cock lay free, the beautiful appendage a dusky rose as it strained upward, almost flush with his belly as it begged for a touch that John was long in giving.

They had discussed things well in advance, what Sherlock liked, what he didn’t, and what John was comfortable doing. John had even insisted on giving it a go first, and this was all well and good in that Sherlock could show him how it was done, and where the straps and buckles affixed. He bore it well enough even allowing Sherlock to caress him for a time as he hung, but it was not his passion, and soon enough he was itching to be let down.

“Whose puppy are you?” John crooned, thrusting his hand in Sherlock’s hair to tug his head sharply back.

“Yours, John.” Sherlock gasped out.

“That’s right, you’re my good puppy. Mine. No one else’s.” John released Sherlock’s head to run his fingernails along his shoulders, and down his back. Sherlock shivered under his touch.

“Say it again.” 

“Yours.”

“My what?”

“Your good puppy.”

“Damn right you are.”

John had spanked him with the flat of his hand until his arse cheeks glowed rosy red, then spent endless time caressing over Sherlock’s flesh, tweaking and rubbing at the sweet nubs of his nipples, running his fingers everywhere but where it was most wanted until Sherlock was panting for release. Still, John only smiled and stepped back as his lover begged, leaving a hand atop his head, giving him time to catch his breath so they could start anew.

Finally, John had let his willing captive take the head of his cock into his mouth. “You hum, loudly if anything is wrong. Hum for me.” Only when Sherlock had made the appropriate sound had he allowed him to suck at his prick. He fisted one hand in the man’s hair, and held himself in place with the other to slowly fuck those gorgeous lips. 

“Ooh, baby, Gods.” John bit his lip and willed himself to keep it shallow. As he neared completion, he pulled free, and pumped out his release, splashing over Sherlocks’ swollen lips and cheeks, and mop of curls.

 _It was . . . Gods, it was obscene. It was a dirty work of art, this beautiful man painted with his spunk._

“Look at you. You naughty thing.” John crooned when he could speak, fetching a flannel from the floor to gently wipe his love’s face. 

“John, kiss me, please.” 

John refused him nothing then, dropping to his knees to kiss this beautiful god of a man, as he reached under to stroke over his rigid cock with a slick hand. “Can Bunny come out to play? He’s been sooo good waiting.” John rumbled by his ear. Sherlock shuddered all over, and John kissed him again, deep and wet as his love fell apart, stuttering his cries into John's mouth as he emptied himself out over his hand.

Afterwards, John made a nest of blankets, and cradled him on the sofa. “My beautiful, beautiful boy. Precious one.” John couldn’t stop dropping kisses over Sherlock’s face as he pulled him close.

Sherlock lay immobile in his arms, letting John breath life back into him. Eventually he roused enough to shift over, pressing his face into his husband’s neck. “John.” He sighed, a complete puddle of warmth draped against him.

“I’m here, love. I’m here.” John murmured, smoothing a hand down Sherlock’s side over and over. “Sweet man. What did I do to deserve you? Whatever it might be, I give thanks. How blessed I am to have you.” John pressed more kisses into the dark curls tucked under his chin. “How are you, love?”

John could feel the feline smile curving against his skin before Sherlock tipped his head back to gift John with the most wicked look. “Why don’t you come find out?” He purred in his deepest register. 

There were things some mages could do behind closed doors that wasn’t much discussed in polite company, things that could heighten the pleasure of any physical encounter.

“All right, my good boy.” John smiled. “You need to borrow my talent though. Push me back if I get too lost.” 

Only after Sherlock had kissed his neck, and pressed his hand to John to bring a warm glow, had John closed his eyes, and let his mind flow down into the ocean of his husband. The sweet wash of endorphins chasing their way through the man’s body hit him like a surge of bubbling incandescence. He surfed the wave, opened himself to it as it filled him, dissolved him, became him. He sucked up the energy and then sent it back with all his love, amplifying it until a pulsing loop streamed between them of colour, warmth, home, bliss, good . . . 

It was dark when John came back to himself. Sherlock lay passed out on top of him and he quickly checked him over to make sure he was breathing normally. When he had reassured himself the man was merely sleeping, he debated getting up for a drink of water, but fell asleep before he could decide if it was worth shifting the warm mass of inert genius to find it.

 

~ o ~

 

John heard the door to the flat open and close. He panicked for a moment before remembering they had taken the harness down, and packed it away before stumbling for the bed last night. Sherlock slept on, a lump under the covers, and John ran an affectionate hand through the mess of dark curls just peeking out. The smells of good things cooking had him making his way from the bed, and hurrying through a perfunctory wash and dressing to find their housekeeper, Carmina Turner, turning strips of bacon over in the heavy pan on the stove. 

“Oh bless you, Carmina, that smells divine.” John grinned. 

“Good morning, Mr. John.” The woman called back amiably enough, but a frown creased her face. Carmina was a gorgeous woman, round in all the right places, with the largest melting brown eyes. Thankfully the stunning effect of her person had dulled somewhat over time, and John was able to completely ignore the generous swell of her hips whenever she bent over or bustled about the flat. Mostly.

“Whatever’s the matter?” John asked coming into the kitchen to grab a mug for tea.

“I think I’m not making you bacon again for awhile. It smells terrible.” She complained pressing the back of her hand to her nose. 

“Well, that’s fine. I’m fond of eggs too.” He chuckled as Sherlock opened the bedroom door to join them. He had his blue dressing gown wrapped around him, and little else, but he still managed to look utterly regal as he swanned over to take a seat.

“I’ll get your tea, Mr. John. Go sit.” Carmina waved him from the kitchen, and John went to join Sherlock at the table. 

“Good morning, love.” John bent to give him a morning peck. “How did you sleep?” His husband’s breath was warm, and smelled deliciously of himself, concentrated Sherlock. 

“Excellently.” He rumbled out, flashing him a look that was almost illegal for the breakfast table.

“Good, good.” John chuckled and took a seat, selecting one of the newspapers from the stack on the table to look through. The birth of the new prince was still being discussed, but had moved farther down the front page. Sherlock had unfolded three papers and lined them up, scanning them all in rapid succession as Carmina reached around them to set hot mugs of tea down.

“Oh, Ta, Carmina.” John smiled looking up at her.

“Perfect as always, Mrs. Turner.” Sherlock pronounced after his first sip. 

Carmina smiled, and left for the kitchen. “Mr. Sherlock, I wanted to thank you so much for my friend.” She said as she returned with their food. “You did such a good job with her son, Dante.” She beamed as she set their plates down with a small thunk on the table. “It’s a miracle.”

“I take it the apprenticeship I found him at the tailor’s is working out?” Sherlock asked politely.

“It’s very good. He’s so happy there. You saved the day.” Carmina beamed.

“Happy to be of service.” Sherlock nodded, and glancing over their full plates, selected a slice of toast to butter. “Ah, Mrs. Turner, Carmina.” He began, stopping her before she retreated to the kitchen again. “I wanted to let you know we are considering moving our household. Nothing is decided yet, and it would be springtime before we make any big changes, but we wanted to be closer to Irene and Kate as they find a more suitable home for Hamish.” 

“Oh. Moving?” Carmina looked surprised. 

“Yes, it would be a perfect time for you to go while we are shifting our residences.” 

“GO?!” both Carmina and John exclaimed at the same moment. 

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock, are you firing me? Did I do something wrong?” Carmina's lip wobbled as she turned wide eyes between them. 

“Firing you? Good Gods, woman, you’re the only person I know who can make a decent cup of tea, and that dish with the peas. Well, no, of course we’re not letting you go. I thought you would want some time off when the new baby comes though.” 

“Baby?” John cried as their housekeeper flushed scarlet.

“Of course, John.” Sherlock raised both eyebrows. “All the signs are there - dislike of strong food odors, slightly increased girth, and recent marriage to Mr. Turner after five years of dating him. Of course Carmina is expecting.” 

“It’s true.” Carmina said shyly. “We wanted to wait, and let people know when I’m farther along, but Mr. Sherlock is too smart.” 

“Oh Carmina, congratulations.” John jumped up to give her a hug. “Your husband must be so proud.” 

“Neville is very excited. I am too.” Carmina smiled more broadly as she stepped back, and spread her hands over her apron across her abdomen. Her first pregnancy, the result of a rape by the master of the house where she had been in service, had been a terrible experience. Her little girl, Sophie, was in school now and doing beautifully from what Carmina told them. John smiled at her. He hoped this would be a vastly different time for her. 

“Yes, congratulations.” Sherlock added. “Of course we are happy to give you some leave time with pay, and we’ll be more than happy to have you back after. You always have a place with us, Carmina.” 

Carmina lifted her apron to dab at her eyes. “Thank you, sir. Mr. Sherlock, Mr. John. You are the best, both of you!” 

“All right, all right, enough waterworks.” Sherlock blustered as Carmina leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek. She smiled and returned to fuss about the kitchen. 

“There must be something in the water.” John laughed, retaking his seat.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock asked biting into his toast.

“All these babies, there must be something in the water knocking everyone up.” 

“Statistical probabilities only, John.” Sherlock waved his fork about before spearing a tomato. “Next you’ll be telling me tales of the stork dropping off infants in the cabbage patch.” 

“Nope. I’m fairly certain none of the nursery tales worked on you at any age.” 

“That’s true. I disproved that Father Yule existed when I was just shy of three.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Really put my nanny out at the time.”

John chuckled as he forked up a mouthful of beans, then sobered as he chewed. He glanced about the flat. “Do you really think we could find a place we like as much as this one?” 

“I promise we won’t move unless I find something that everyone likes.” 

John paused in his meal to study Sherlock. His hair was still a mess of dark curls haloed about his head, his beautiful eyes, a clear green like some deep pool of water in a shadowed forest. His navy dressing gown had slipped a bit to reveal the column of his long creamy pale throat, and his full lips had quirked just a bit as he noticed John’s scrutiny. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow in inquiry. 

“You are lovely.” John breathed out. “Do you have anything on today?” 

“Nothing that can’t be completely ignored.” A small wicked smile curled its way across his face. 

“Once Carmina’s done . . .” John flicked his eyes suggestively toward the bedroom door. 

“It’s a date.” Sherlock smirked.

“There, finish your food first. I don’t want you passing out on me later.” John pointed toward Sherlock’s mostly-full plate that he had ignored in favour of pulling out a fourth newspaper to read.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Sherlock said, reclaiming his fork with a cheeky wink.

 

– The End –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our universe the saying,“ In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes." is a quote attributed to Benjamin Franklin.
> 
> **********
> 
> Great Gods on a pogo stick! I've finally finished this epic whale of a fic! Please drop me a note if you enjoyed reading it! It warms my heart to hear from my oh so lovely readers!


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